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, r 

































THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 




Novels by Philip Curtiss 


Crater's Gold 
Mummers in Mufti 
Wanted: A Fool 
Between Two Worlds 
The Ladder 


Harper & Brothers 
Publishers 




The 

Gay Conspirators 


By PHILIP CURTISS 


By the Author of "Craters Gold” 
“Wanted: A Fool,” Etc. 



NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Harper & Brothers Publishers 
1924 









THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 

Copyright, 1924, by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the United States of America 

First Edition 
F-Y 



sep 23 m ; 


©C1A807006' 









THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 





r 















Chapter I 

I T was at quarter of nine in the morning—during 
the breakfast hour—that the great adventure 
came to Royal Besant. And the day was one of the 
softest and sunniest of a beautiful June. Those 
facts in themselves always struck Royal Besant as 
among the strangest features in the whole affair, 
for adventure, romance, and mystery had always 
been connected in his mind with midnight, with 
clanking chains and vaulted stone passageways far 
underground, with whirring limousines flitting 
ghost-like through gray city streets, with sinister, 
black-bearded men with masks and revolvers, with 
shrinking, terrified ladies in disarray, with a fear¬ 
some, haunting “something” which spread inky 
dread through all its surroundings. 

Yet here he was, lingering over his second large 
cup of coffee flecked with thick dairy cream, seated 
under his own grape arbor above the mildest, 
most peaceful little harbor on the Massachusetts 
coast. Among the big, flat leaves of the grape vines 
over his head a bumblebee, misled perhaps by the 
fragrance of the sugar bowl, had worked its way 
into the matted arbor and now was trying to work 
its way out again. From the big estate which 
adjoined Besant’s own little place and stretched 
far out to the headlands, the cheerful click of a 
lawn mower came fitfully and by jerks as the 
gardener, apparently, mowed in and out of the 
l 




2 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


edges of flower beds. From time to time the dull, 
beady hum of a motor car could be heard on the 
distant concrete of the state highway, a quarter 
of a mile away. All around lay the sweet, fresh 
June scent of grass and flowers from which the 
dew had not yet entirely vanished while, framed 
in the archway of the arbor, below the end of the 
lawn, lay a clear-cut circle of vivid blue harbor, 
as still as a millpond and as deep as turquoise. 
Out at the end of the little inlet, just before the 
rich blue of the bay, joined the thinner gray of the 
ocean, a local fishing boat was rocking, almost 
motionless, with blunt, square bows and an in¬ 
credibly heavy mast. One could never believe 
that that fishing boat had started from anywhere 
or was going anywhere. It was just put there to 
complete the picture. “Picture?” thought Royal 
Besant to himself. “No, that’s not a picture. It’s 
a chromo on a music box or an old-fashioned 
mirror. No painter would ever dare try to do any¬ 
thing so obvious—and so completely satisfying.” 

Besant leaned back from his green garden table 
and lighted his pipe, while overhead the bumblebee 
poked and blundered in perfect good nature and 
a little, faint breeze, freshly cool, lifted one or two 
of the grape leaves. Everything was just as it 
should be on this magnificent morning, even the 
pipe, for Besant had just pried open a new can of 
rare, fragrant “Hermitage,” an exquisite English 
tobacco, received only the night before from a 
quaint little dealer whom he had discovered up an 
odd alley in Boston. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


3 


Besant drew in three or four of the sweet, dry 
puffs, stared down for a moment at the deep blue 
bay, then cautiously looked over his shoulder. 
Hannigan, his cook, valet, gardener, and man-of- 
all-work, was nowhere in sight, so Besant, with a 
shamefaced, apologetic air, decided to allow him¬ 
self the final sentimentalism to fit such a morning. 
Rising guiltily, he went into the little cottage and 
came back with a violin. He tuned it hurriedly, 
almost by chance, and then sat down to play softly 
the two or three airs which constituted almost his 
entire repertoire. 

By no stretch of the imagination could it be said 
that Besant played the violin well. In the evening 
by the firelight, perhaps, it sounded well enough, 
but, out here in the glaring light of the morning, 
the sunshine and the flowers and the bumblebee 
were doing it so much better than he could ever 
hope to do it. Laying his violin on the table, he 
fumbled in the pocket of his tweed golfing coat for 
another match, then turned with a guilty start, for 
behind him a voice had suddenly spoken, not with¬ 
out a faint twinge of amusement. 

“Good morning, Mr. Besant. I’m sorry to inter¬ 
rupt you.” 

At the upper end of the arbor, near the kitchen 
door, a man of perhaps forty-five was standing, the 
top of his hat almost touching the grape vines over¬ 
head. He was a complete stranger to Besant, but 
was obviously a city man, a New-Yorker, in fact 
rather a Wall Street type. He came down the 
arbor and held out his hand. 




4 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“I have a letter to you from Mr. Shea,” he began; 
then added, informally, “I wish that you would go 
on playing. You play awfully well and I shouldn’t 
have broken in, but I have come clear from New 
York to ask you a very great favor.” 

Besant rose from the table and took the offered 
hand with a laugh. 

“If you can say that I play the violin well,” he 
replied, “you must want something very badly 
indeed.” 

The stranger laughed with him and Besant 
waved toward the table. “I was just finishing 
breakfast and I didn’t suppose that there was a soul 
within a million miles. Won’t you have a cup of 
coffee?” 

The stranger shook his head, “No, thank you. 
I had breakfast in the buffet car, coming up.” But 
as he took off his hat and the gentle breeze from 
the grape vines faintly ruffled his hair, he added 
with a sudden impulse; “Will you let me take that 
back? With a view like this and a morning like 
this, there would be nothing in the world more 
luxurious than lingering over breakfast until at 
least noon.” 

“That’s what I thought, myself,” answered 
Besant. He went into the kitchen and came back 
with a cup and a huge enameled coffee pot. He 
pushed the cream and sugar within reach of his 
visitor and then himself accepted the long, fine 
cigar which the stranger offered. As he took it, 
Besant noticed that the band was marked “Federal 
Club.” The stranger waited until he had 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


5 


sweetened and tasted his coffee before he con¬ 
tinued with his introduction of himself. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “my name is Cramp— 
of the law firm of Cramp & Stallard. There are 
four Cramps and two Stallards in the firm, but 
take it for granted that I am one of them. Your 
name, as I say, was suggested to me by Mr. Shea, 
managing editor of the New York Record -” 

The visitor paused suddenly, in doubt. “You are 
Mr. Royal Besant, are you not?” 

He pronounced the name with the accent on the 
last syllable and Besant laughed again. 

“My real name,” he said, “is Besant, plain old 
Yankee Besant, to rhyme with ‘peasant,’ but people 
are so determined to make me a Frenchman and 
call it Besant that I have given up the struggle. 
Besant I will be—at your orders.” 

The stranger smiled. “I wish that I could be 
sure of that, for Mr. Shea gave me quite another 
impression.” He paused and looked for a moment 
estimatingly at his host, then reached to an inner 
pocket. “Perhaps the simplest way would be to 
show you Mr. Shea’s letter. He says some very 
nice things about you.” 

Besant unfolded the letter which the visitor 
handed him. It gave him rather a curious feeling 
to see again that familiar, slightly dingy stationery 
of the old Record office—a faint tinge of home¬ 
sickness on the one hand but, at the same time, a 
little dart of distaste, for it had been to escape the 
Record office and all the things that it represented 
that he had come to this distant little hermitage 





6 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


by the sea. Nevertheless, as the stranger had 
hinted, the letter itself proved to be a most diplo¬ 
matic beginning. 

Mr. Arthur J. Cramp, 

Cramp & Stallard, 

New York City. 

My dear Mr. Cramp : 

I have your confidential letter asking me to name the 
most skillful police reporter in the United States, but, as 
usually happens in such cases, the man you want is the 
very one that you will not be able to get. 

As nearly as I can interpret the rather guarded terms 
of your letter, what you want is a man who combines 
the sagacity of Sherlock Holmes, the diplomatic genius of 
the late Joseph Choate, and the personal charm of Doug¬ 
las Fairbanks. As you yourself will admit, this is a 
rather tall order and the only person I ever knew in my 
life who even approached this ideal is a highly exasper¬ 
ating young man named Royal Besant. (The name sounds 
like a yacht club, but actually he is a person.) 

Until six months ago Mr. Besant was a member of the 
staff of the Record and I had got to the point where I 
did not see how I could bring out the paper without him, 
when suddenly, without warning, fate struck me a nasty 
blow. Some misguided relative died and left Mr. Besant 
a small income—not much, I believe, but enough to free 
him forever from my personal tyranny. The news came 
to Mr. Besant himself through the columns of the Record. 
He read it, walked into my office, and resigned then and 
there. He said that he never wanted to see another 
policeman, another crook or even the streets of New 
York again, and, so far as I can find out, he has had his 
wish, for I have never seen him since. He left town the 
same day, bought a cottage somewhere on the Massachu¬ 
setts coast, and, they tell me, has settled down to the 
tasks of coloring meerschaum pipes, raising poodles, and 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


7 


writing books on “How to Tell the Wildflowers from the 
Tame Ones.” 

At the time, I did not believe that he would stick to it 
a week, for a man less fitted to seek a haunt in some far 
wilderness and one more fitted to hunt out crooks in the 
streets of New York never lived. I expected to see him 
again almost any bright morning, but I should have 
known better. Twelve years of intimate association 
should have taught me that anything that Royal Besant 
said that he would do, he would do, and I suppose that, 
if you must have him, the only thing for you to do is to 
hunt him up in his lair and find out the same thing about 
him—one way or the other. 

So there you are. That is your man if you can get him; 
but I warn you that, like most geniuses, Royal Besant is 
as pig-headed as a setting hen. Even so, I don’t name 
any substitute, for there isn’t anyone in his class and the 
minute you see him you will know what I mean. 

In appearance Mr. Besant is very deceptive. At first 
glance—and at second glance—and at third glance—you 
would take him for a pleasant-mannered, rather studious 
young man who was an instructor in English at Prince¬ 
ton or perhaps an expert on old paintings at the Metro¬ 
politan Museum. As a matter of fact, if there is any¬ 
thing about the dark and seamy side of life that Royal 
Besant does not know, I never want to know it myself. 
It was he who really dug out the facts in the Gassaway 
case, five years ago, and he gave me a detailed account 
of just what was going to come to light in the Savage 
murder six months before the police knew it themselves. 

Incidentally, if you have any skeletons in your own 
private history that you don’t want known, my advice to 
you is to keep away from Royal Besant. He is the nearest 
thing to a mind-reader that I ever saw—for a man who 
does not pretend to be one. 

Without any question, Mr. Besant is the ideal man for 
your job, but if you can pry him away from his garden 
and his pipe, you will be doing more than I have ever 




8 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


been able to do. Still, if you must try, call me up and I 
will dig out his present address. 

With best wishes. 

Sincerely yours, 

Roland R. Shea. 

It was natural that when Royal Besant looked 
up from his old chief’s letter, he was smiling 
faintly, but as he pushed the sheets back across 
the table, a cloud of reluctance began to form 
over his face. 

“Mr. Shea is certainly flattering,” he remarked, 
“but at the same time he manages to make me look 
like an ass.” 

The visitor lifted his hand in protest. “On the 
contrary, he manages to make you look like a very 
wise man.” He nodded toward the glimpse of blue 
harbor, framed like a church window in the end 
of the trellis. “Anyone who, at your age, has the 
sense to choose this instead of the streets of New 
York and the grime of the police courts is, I think, 
a very sane man indeed.” 

“And yet,” replied Besant, “you come up here 
and want me to go back to it.” 

The visitor looked at him in surprise. “Who 
said that I wanted you to go back to it?” 

“Well, at any rate,” suggested Besant, “you 
didn’t come all this way to hear me play the 
violin.” 

The attorney laughed with him. “I am not so 
sure of that.” 




Chapter II 

T HE visitor fumbled for a moment with the 
cigar case which he still held in his hand, 
then swiftly brought the matter to a diplomatic 
beginning. 

“Am I to understand, Mr. Besant, that you—that 
your services are not open to an offer of any kind? 
Was Mr. Shea quite correct on that point?” 

“Well, he was and he wasn’t,” confessed Besant. 
“Naturally I am curious to know what is coming.” 
As his visitor himself had done, he waved his hand 
toward the lawn and the harbor. “So far as pure 
inclination is concerned, I would be content to 
stay here and smoke the rest of my life, but still 
I am only thirty-two years old and if you have 
come to offer me the presidency of the Standard 
Oil Company, I will be a very attentive listener.” 

The stranger nodded. “Quite so.” But before 
he could answer any further, Besant himself broke 
in with a dubious note. 

“Is it another newspaper job?” he inquired. 

The attorney hastened to reassure him on that 
point. “Oh no,” he said. “In fact, in strict terms, 
it isn’t really a job at all.” 

He still sat fumbling awkwardly with his cigar 
case, apparently finding it very difficult to explain 
his errand tactfully, and Besant again cut in with 
a hint. 

“Since you asked Mr. Shea for a police reporter,” 
9 




10 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


he began, “it would be natural to guess that you 
wish me to make some sort of investigations.” 

Again he spoke with a faint air of distaste that 
made the attorney more cautious than ever. 

“Well, perhaps I should not say exactly ‘investi¬ 
gations,’ ” he replied. “Possibly ‘studies’ would be 
the better word.” 

Royal Besant broke into a laugh. “Mr. Cramp,” 
he exclaimed, “you are certainly master of the 
sugar-coated pill. Then it is investigations that 
you wish me to undertake?” 

The visitor was obliged, in a qualified way, to 
admit the surmise. 

“Have you any objections to that sort of thing?” 

The shade of reluctance was growing more 
clearly pronounced on Royal Besant’s rather boy¬ 
ish face. “It is not very pleasant,” he answered, 
“taking money for poking your nose into other 
people’s business. To tell the truth, Mr. Shea 
either has a very wrong idea of my tastes or else 
he is determined that I shan’t enjoy my first 
vacation in over ten years. Only a month ago he 
sent me an offer to go to the Bahamas and Cuba 
to investigate the sources of bootleg liquor.” 

“Probably,” answered the lawyer, quietly, “he 
has a better appreciation of your true talents than 
you have yourself and is determined not to let 
them go stale. Mr. Shea is not a man who throws 
around flattering remarks just for the sake of 
throwing them.” 

This was perfectly true and no one knew it better 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


11 


than Royal Besant. “What is this?” he persisted, 
quietly. “A criminal matter?” 

“That’s just the point,” answered the visitor. 
“That’s just what we don’t know and that is 
exactly what we wish to find out.” 

The attorney suddenly drew his chair closer to 
the table. “Mr. Besant,” he began, “there is no 
use making a Chinese puzzle of this thing and I 
will try to explain it as briefly as I can.” He 
paused a moment and then plunged directly into 
his subject. 

“We are not,” he explained, “a firm of criminal 
lawyers. I imagine that you have already guessed 
that much. If we were accustomed to that sort of 
thing, it would probably never have been necessary 
for us to look for your aid. But we never have 
had any experience in that line and we do not wish 
to get either ourselves or our clients entangled in 
that side of the law. That in itself may explain 
to you why we do not take this matter straight to 
the police or even to a detective agency. The 
truth is that we have got to have the services of a 
private individual—a gentleman, in brief—who is 
trained in criminal work, but yet has the same 
tact, the same discretion and—well, the same social 
viewpoint—that we would expect from the mem¬ 
bers of our own firm. As Mr. Shea has pointed 
out and as we knew ourselves, there are not very 
many such men in the world. Whatever may 
develop in this little matter of ours, we want to 
be sure that it will be locked up in the same secrecy 
in which we would guard it ourselves. Most of all, 




12 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


we do not wish to send into it a man whose appear¬ 
ance and manners would stamp his profession 
from the start. In short, since seeing you, Mr. 
Besant, I am convinced that Mr. Shea was abso¬ 
lutely right, that you are exactly the man for our 
purpose. If you can see your way clear to helping 
us out, it is not necessary to say that almost any 
sum you ask for your services will be paid without 
question.” 

From the other side of the table. Royal Besant 
was watching him with amused impatience. “You 
are certainly whetting my curiosity,” he repeated. 

The lawyer laughed curtly. “I hoped that I 
might.” For a moment he sat tapping idly on the 
green table, still finding it difficult to get his 
subject under way. 

“Mr. Besant,” he began once more, “it was a 
very curious thing that when I came here this 
morning I found you playing the violin. If I were 
superstitious, I should regard it as a good omen.” 

As if with a sudden resolve, the attorney looked 
up sharply and fired his first shot. 

“Would it interest you in this matter if I told you 
that one of the central figures in this case was 
Ruiz Serrano?” 

As the attorney had expected, his shot had gone 
home, but Besant was still faintly guarded in his 
reply. 

“Who?” he asked, cautiously. 

“Ruiz Serrano,” repeated the lawyer, “the 
famous violinist. Doesn’t that quicken your 
interest?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


13 


“Yes,” answered Besant, “it naturally does.” 
But for a moment more he made no further reply. 
He had apparently forgotten the cigar which the 
lawyer had given him and began once more to 
cram the bowl of his pipe with his beloved 
“Hermitage” while the visitor sat watching him 
with an attentive but rather complacent air. 
When, however. Royal Besant did reply, his ques¬ 
tion proved to be a shot even more startling than 
the visitor’s own. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he suggested, quietly, “you repre¬ 
sent the Crewe family, do you not? You have 
come here to find out whether Ruiz Serrano is as 
big a scoundrel as old Damon Crewe believes him 
to be. Is that about it?” 

In his own turn Royal Besant leaned back and 
puffed at his pipe while at the other side of the 
table the visitor had turned almost white. 

“How in the world did you know that?” he 
demanded. 

Besant gently blew the fresh, hot sparks from 
the top of his pipe. “Mr. Cramp,” he said, 
apologetically, “I am afraid that I have been very 
rude and childishly melodramatic, but the tempta¬ 
tion to make that guess was too great to be 
resisted.” 

The attorney looked down at the grass-grown 
flagstones which paved the arbor. “Unfortu¬ 
nately,” he replied, “your guess is absolutely true, 
but you still haven’t told me how you made it.” 

“It was very childish,” repeated Besant, but 
before he could say any more the lawyer himself 




14 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


gave a warning jerk of his head and both men 
settled into an attitude of studied indifference. For 
another shadow had fallen across the end of the 
arbor and a step was approaching over the 
flagstones. 

“Yes, Mr. Besant,” drawled the visitor, a little 
self-consciously, “as I was saying, I don’t believe 
there’s a finer view on all the Massachusetts coast 
than that little bit right there at the end of your 
garden.” 




Chapter III 

T HE figure which had caused this interruption 
and was now approaching slowly down the 
arbor would have been a comic one under any 
circumstances, but under the present circum¬ 
stances was almost beyond belief. It was the 
figure of a raffish young man of about twenty-five 
with the grinning, wizened face of a street arab, 
but the body of Udo, the Caucasian giant, in his 
extreme and most callow youth. 

This amazing person was not less than six feet, 
six inches in height, but incredibly thin. On his 
wild shock of dark-red curly hair he was wearing 
a white cook’s cap like a mushroom, a cap so 
small and so exaggerated in shape that it could 
not have had its origin anywhere except at Weber 
& Fields’s or in the movies. Around the front of 
his body was tied a white butcher’s apron which 
would have fully covered an ordinary man, but 
on this lank beanpole merely occupied a section 
of the torrid zone, leaving above it a long vista of 
rumpled, purple shirt without a collar, but with 
a very aggressive brass stud at the neckband. 
Below the apron, which merely fell low enough 
on its wearer’s legs to give the effect of a scant, 
Zulu waistband, showed a long pair of very tight, 
badly worn trousers, like stovepipes, turned up at 
the bottom to display broken tan sport shoes, 
fastened with straps, and wrinkled, ox-blood 
15 




16 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


cotton socks, worn obviously with no help from 
garters. 

As to the face, Cramp, the lawyer, was conscious 
at first only of a very long, broken nose and a 
wizened, good-natured grin, but a moment later, 
as he recovered his breath, so to speak, he noticed 
the most remarkable pair of ears that he had ever 
seen in his life. Had Arthur Cramp been less of 
a family lawyer and more of a sportsman, he 
would have recognized them at once as “cauli¬ 
flower ears,” the result of being pounded for years 
in the prize ring or being scrubbed lustily over 
the unfriendly canvas of a wrestling mat. As 
frequently happens in abnormally tall persons, the 
small, quaintly humorous face of this telescopic 
young man had apparently no connection with 
the rest of his body, but merely gave the effect of 
some diminutive jockey riding high on a borrowed 
mount. To cut short an introduction which Cramp 
himself was to make at very slow intervals, this 
newcomer was Tim Hannigan, originally known 
as “Tim, the Newsboy,” later as “The Human 
Scissors,” and at present as Royal Besant’s cook, 
gardener, and valet. 

Accustomed as he was to his henchman’s 
habits, even Besant himself had to smile at his 
present appearance. 

“Well, Tim,” he asked, “where in the world 
have you been? They’ve called me up from the 
village and said that the car is ready whenever 
you want to go down and get it.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


17 


The valet came forward and leaned his reversed 
palms familiarly on the edge of the table, in the 
manner of a sociable waiter at a very cheap res¬ 
taurant. His attitude brought into the foreground 
a long pair of thin, freckled forearms, composed, 
apparently, of nothing but bone. 

“I’ve been over raising hell with that Polish 
gardener next door,” he replied with an air of 
righteous indignation. “It’s that blamed peacock 
of Mr. Sanford’s. I comes down this morning and 
finds him out in our lettuce again, chewing away 
at the roots and dragging that broom of a tail 
all over the seed beds. I chased him back over 
where he belongs and then I looked up the 
gardener and told him that if we found that 
bird in our lettuce again, you or I would come over 
and wring his damn neck.” 

Besant laughed. “Well, Tim, you know we’re 
only newcomers here. It’s up to us to keep on 
good terms with the neighbors.” 

“Just the same,” retorted Tim, “I ain’t going to 
have that bird digging up all the seeds just as soon 
as I get them planted. Say, Mr. Besant, I met a 
man down in the village who says that a peacock 
is afraid of a ferret. Is he lying, I don’t know. 
But I’m going to get one and leave it over there 
in a box by the wall and see what will happen. 
If they’re going to keep a peacock, they can’t 
object if we keep a ferret.” 

Abruptly Tim broke off from his air of hot 
indignation and nodded sociably down toward the 
table. 




18 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“You through with them dishes yet?” he 
demanded. 

“Yes, Tim,” answered Besant. “You can take 
them all and when you get them cleaned up you 
can go down to the village and bring up the car. 
Unless,” he added, as a sudden afterthought, 
“unless Mr. Cramp will have another cup of 
coffee?” 

Tim, who had already seized the big coffee pot 
in his hand, held it as a good-natured threat over 
the visitor’s head, but the lawyer refused with 
a smile. 

“No, thank you,” he said. “It’s a great tempta¬ 
tion, but I’ve already had one more cup than the 
doctor allows me.” 

As Tim began to sweep up the dishes from the 
table and then to rattle them noisily in the little 
kitchen, half a dozen paces away, Besant soon saw 
that the shaded arbor was no longer the place for 
a confidential conversation. 

“What do you say,” he suggested, “to going down 
to the end of the lawn and having a look at the 
ocean?” 

“Excellent,” answered his guest, and, lighting a 
fresh cigar, he rose to his feet, prepared to follow. 




Chapter IV 


T the end of the lawn the land dropped 



l\ abruptly for six or eight feet to a short width 
of pebbled and rocky beach over which the waves 
of the inlet were rising and receding in a gentle 
and modified swell which had not been visible 
from the arbor. Out toward the neck of the bay 
the fishing boat was still rocking idly in the same 
position, one or two figures now being clearly 
discernible, sitting motionless under the shadow 
of the useless mainsail. On the far horizon a 
coastwise steamer was progressing slowly north¬ 
ward, leaving an ever-increasing pennant of 
trailing black smoke. 

In the clear, baking sunlight, Royal Besant 
stretched himself luxuriously on the hot turf, while 
the attorney, seeming less at ease in his city 
clothes, sat upright and hugged his knees up before 
him. 

“I am sorry for the interruption,” began Besant. 
“You were just at the point of telling me some¬ 
thing.” 

“On the contrary,” laughed the attorney, “you 
were just at the point of telling me something that 
I am still very anxious to learn. How, for instance, 
did you know that I represented the Crewe family? 
And how did you know just what I had come up 
here for?” 

“The first of those questions,” said Besant, “is 


19 




20 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


really very easy. If you will pardon my saying 
so, you are just the kind of attorney who would 
represent the Crewe family. If a firm with four 
Cramps and two Stallards were in this case at all, 
it would be in the interest of someone like Damon 
Crewe.” 

“I know,” answered the lawyer, “but I didn’t 
mention the Crewe family at all, not even to Mr. 
Shea. What made you think of them?” 

“That I am afraid,” said Besant, “is merely town 
gossip. You mentioned the name of Ruiz Serrano, 
the violinist. You surely must know that it has 
been all over New York for a year or more that 
the daughter of Damon Crewe has been very 
devoted to Ruiz Serrano—or else that he has been 
devoted to her—or both. It is also common gossip 
that the young lady’s family is furious about it. 
So, when you mentioned the violinist, Ruiz Ser¬ 
rano, and intimated that one of your clients wished 
to make some investigations, my mind naturally 
jumped to the Crewe family. I knew at the very 
least that you had never come here in the interests 
of Ruiz Serrano.” 

As he spoke, the attorney was nodding slowly 
and with a marked reluctance. “Yes,” he con¬ 
fessed, “I am afraid that that is about the size 
of it. But is all New York really talking about it? 
That is just what we have all been afraid of. Is it 
really as bad as that?” 

Royal Besant turned toward him with good- 
natured impatience. “My dear Mr. Cramp, you 
surely must know that, so far as gossip is con- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


21 


cerned, New York is the greatest village in the 
world—provided, that is, that the persons con¬ 
cerned are interesting enough, or important.” 

He made a sudden gesture with the stem of his 
pipe. “Of course I don’t mean to say that people 
are talking about it in the public parks or the 
subways, but certainly all of Miss Crewe’s own 
friends must know about it and a thing of that 
kind very quickly becomes known in the news¬ 
paper offices.” 

As Besant had talked, the attorney had been 
nodding impatiently, and as soon as his host had 
ended he broke in abruptly: 

“Well, there’s the case in a nutshell, Mr. Besant. 
You are perfectly correct in your supposition. 
I am representing the Crewe family in this affair. 
They are naturally frantic about the whole busi¬ 
ness and are determined to put an end to it as 
speedily as possible.” 

“Why?” asked Royal Besant, very calmly. 

The lawyer turned toward him, aghast. “Why?” 
he echoed. “Isn’t that obvious on the face of it? 
If there are very clear signs that a girl like Cynthia 
Crewe is about to be hypnotized into a marriage 
with a common adventurer like Ruiz Serrano-” 

Besant interrupted him with his same madden¬ 
ing quietness. “Is Ruiz Serrano a common 
adventurer?” 

“Well, isn’t he?” replied Cramp. “At least he is, 
from the Crewes’ point of view. Doesn’t any 
young man of unknown antecedents who is trying 
to marry a girl who is heir to fifteen or twenty 





22 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


million put himself at once under suspicion of 
being an adventurer? You said yourself that he 
was a scoundrel.” 

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t say anything of 
the sort,” answered Besant, still in that easy, good- 
natured calmness, and for the first time the 
attorney began to see what Shea had meant when 
he had spoken of him as an exasperating and pig¬ 
headed young man. “What I said was that Damon 
Crewe thought him a scoundrel. Under the cir¬ 
cumstances, I presume that he does. As you say, 
it is wholly natural, but still that doesn’t make 
him one.” 

Puffing gently at his pipe, Royal Besant stared 
thoughtfully at the thick, rank grass which, in 
the glaring sunlight, took on a faint grayish color. 
“Please understand,” he continued, “that on gen¬ 
eral principles I realize that you may be entirely 
correct. Ruiz Serrano is possibly all that you 
think he is—and worse. But isn’t it rather an 
unfair thing to impute the lowest motives to a 
young musician simply because he wants to marry 
a girl with a great deal of money? There is always 
the chance, you know, that he may be very deeply 
in love with her.” 

“Have you ever seen him?” asked the lawyer, 
curtly. 

“No,” answered Besant. 

“If you had,” replied Cramp, in a rapid, uncon¬ 
sidered way, “you would probably feel very 
differently. Ruiz Serrano is one of these tea- 
haunting, hand-kissing Spaniards, one of the sleek. 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


23 


hopping kind who manages to get invitations to 
things on the strength of his foreign airs and his 
music. He is the kind of man-” 

The attorney paused, at loss for a word suf¬ 
ficiently contemptuous, but already Besant had 
caught a waning, uncertain note in his description. 
Quietly he put in a question of his own. 

“Frankly, Mr. Cramp, have you ever seen him 
yourself?” 

The lawyer flushed to a deep brick color. “No,” 
he admitted, gruffly; “to be honest, I haven’t, but 
naturally my information comes from the most 
intimate sources.” 

Besant smiled slightly, but for a moment he 
said nothing. “At least,” he offered, after a pause, 
“Ruiz Serrano is supposed to be a very great 
artist.” 

“Some people say that he is,” answered Cramp, 
“and some say that he isn’t. There are certain 
people in New York who are unkind enough 
to say that he is a downright faker. The main 
thing is that no one knows anything about him 
and no one can find out. He has played his cards 
very shrewdly in that way. He flashed into sudden 
fame two or three years ago at a concert down 
at some little slum theater or in Greenwich Village 
or some place of that kind. After that he went 
up like a meteor on the strength of all this futur¬ 
istic, new-art sort of business.” 

“Is that true?” asked Besant, in surprise. “I 
have never heard him, but I had had the impres¬ 
sion that his music was almost severely classical.” 




24 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Again the lawyer flushed uncomfortably, for 
again he had been caught off his guard. “Of 
course,” he confessed, “I was only giving my gen¬ 
eral impression. Personally, I don’t pretend to 
know anything about music. I am merely con¬ 
cerned with the man.” 

Cramp suddenly abandoned his rather ungra¬ 
cious attitude and turned to Besant in a kindlier 
way. “But, good Heavens! Mr. Besant,” he sug¬ 
gested, “there is no use our getting into an argu¬ 
ment over a minor point. Can’t we drop that 
phase of the matter for the time being? I have 
certainly told you enough about the whole thing 
to show you why we don’t wish to take any more 
persons into our confidence. At least won’t you 
let me give you some further idea of just what I 
had in mind?” 

But Royal Besant had thrown himself again at 
full length on the grass and was thoughtfully 
staring out at the fishing boat in the harbor which 
now had caught a faint breeze and was slowly 
edging its way toward the opposite shore. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he began, “I don’t want to seem 
rude and I don’t want to seem what Mr. Shea calls 
me—obstinate and pig-headed—but the plain truth 
is that, the more I hear of this business the less 
I like it. To put it bluntly, what you want me to 
do is to step in and interfere in a purely family 
matter. You want me to stop a marriage between 
an impetuous young lady and some one whom she 
is apparently very fond of. Isn’t that her own 
family’s business, not mine?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


25 


“But yet you must see,” answered Cramp, diplo¬ 
matically, “that this is very far from being an 
ordinary case. All the members of the Crewe 
family are practically persons in public life. 
Precautions that would be merely ridiculous in 
most cases are very necessary for the family of— 
well, some one like the Governor of the state, or 
a famous banker, or the inheritor of a great 
fortune, or in fact any man in the position of 
Damon Crewe.” 

“But for that very reason,” suggested Besant, 
“they ought to have facilities at their command 
for guarding themselves to their own satisfaction.” 

The attorney looked toward him humorously. 
“May I suggest, Mr. Besant, that that is exactly 
what we are attempting to do?” 

Even Besant was forced to grin in reply. “And 
you wish me to enlist in the Crewe family’s private 
police force?” he suggested. “I am sorry, Mr. 
Cramp, if my sense of Yankee humor makes me 
see the funny side of all this, but, honestly now, 
isn’t it rather a humiliating thing to suggest to a 
simple, hard-working reporter that he give up his 
well-earned leisure and take on a job as watch¬ 
dog to an infatuated and headstrong young lady? 
She, for one, would never thank me for it and I 
doubt whether any one else would.” 

The humor of the idea seemed to carry him 
along. “Understand, please, Mr. Cramp, that I 
have all sympathy for Miss Crewe’s family, but, 
frankly, if they are really determined that she 
shall not marry this Buiz Serrano, why don’t they 




26 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


just forbid her to do it—lock her in her room, 
take her to Europe, do any one of the things that, 
as you say, an ordinary family would do?” 

At his side, the attorney was chuckling quietly. 
“If you say that, Mr. Besant, it shows that you 
never had a daughter and it shows especially that 
you don’t know Miss Cynthia Crewe. If you were 
as experienced in daughters as you are in other 
lines, you would know at once that the very way 
to force a high-spirited young lady into the arms 
of an undesirable lover is to forbid her to see him. 
Besides, what can be done? Miss Crewe is of age. 
She is completely her own mistress. Furthermore, 
she is entirely capable of defying her family any 
moment they decide to cross her. We don’t live 
in an age of convents and duennas. If Miss 
Cynthia Crewe should take it into her head to put 
on her hat and walk out of the house, she’d do it 
in a minute. There is no way to stop her. In that 
respect the Crewes are on a par with any other 
family.” 

In spite of himself, this spirited picture had done 
more to enlist Royal Besant’s sympathy than any¬ 
thing else that the lawyer had said. 

“And so,” he suggested, “Miss Crewe’s parents 
have not taken any steps to interfere in this 
affair?” 

The attorney shook his head. “Not directly. In 
that regard they have acted very wisely. Of course 
Miss Crewe knows that they disapprove of it— 
disapprove very deeply, but, so far as I know, 
there has never been any open break about it. 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


27 


On the contrary, this Ruiz Serrano has been at 
perfect liberty to go and come as he pleases. In a 
formal way he is sufficiently well known as an 
artist to make that completely plausible. In fact, 
if I am not mistaken, he is up there now.” 

“Up where?” demanded Besant, suddenly. 

“At Mr. Crewe’s country place—up at Legget’s 
Harbor.” 

The visitor paused, as if debating the wisdom of 
firing his second big shot, then suddenly decided 
to fire it. “And that,” he added, “is exactly where 
we wish you to go—in case you decide to help us.” 

“To Legget’s Harbor?” asked Besant, looking up 
in surprise. 

The attorney nodded. “We wish to send you up 
there—ostensibly as an innocent guest—to one of 
Mrs. Crewe’s house parties.” 

Royal Besant laughed outright. “How perfectly 
ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “It’s like a French 
farce!” 

The smile, however, with which the attorney 
answered him was merely perfunctory. “Unfor¬ 
tunately,” he said, “it isn’t like a French farce at 
all. It is apt to be very grimly serious. At the 
very least Miss Cynthia Crewe is likely to come 
home again, in three or four months, a saddened 
and disillusioned young lady. The truth is that I 
haven’t yet told you the whole of the story.” 

With what Besant already recognized as a 
nervous mannerism of his, the visitor slowly drew 
out his cigar case and began to tap his hand with 
the edge of it. 




28 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Mr. Besant,” he said, very sincerely, “I must 
confess that I understand absolutely just how you 
feel about going into all this. It may be that I 
have introduced my offer in the clumsiest possible 
way, but I wonder whether this suggestion will 
not make you look at it differently: 

“Suppose,” he continued, “that I use for a 
moment a very well-worn comparison. Suppose 
that you had a sister, or a daughter, or any care¬ 
fully brought-up, impulsive, innocent young girl 
in your family. And suppose that this girl should 
become infatuated with some unknown young man 
in any Bohemian profession—an actor, let us say, 
or a horseman, or possibly a professional aviator. 
And suppose-” 

Already, however, Besant had seen the drift of 
his argument. 

“But hasn’t Miss Crewe any brothers,” he asked, 
“or uncles, or cousins, or anyone in her own family 
who could properly do this thing for her?” 

“She has not,” answered Cramp. “That is just 
the point to which I was coming.” He paused a 
moment, then asked, suddenly, “Have you ever 
seen Mr. Damon Crewe himself?” 

“Never,” said Besant. “I know him merely by 
reputation.” 

The lawyer nodded and continued. “Mr. Damon 
Crewe is not as young a man as he once was. 
Officially he is still at the head of all his big 
financial interests, but actually even his personal 

affairs are now managed by other persons_my 

own firm among them. We would not care to 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


29 


have it generally reported, but Mr. Crewe has had 
one slight paralytic stroke and at any time may 
have another. His mind, while not actually fail¬ 
ing, is nevertheless becoming exceedingly— 
imperious. Over certain trifles he has tended to 
become inordinately preoccupied. On the other 
hand, of certain more important things he seems 
to remain completely oblivious.” 

“This particular affair among others?” suggested 
Besant. 

“No, as to this unhappy entanglement he seems 
thoroughly awakened,” answered the attorney, 
“but at the same time no one can ever tell when 
he will fly off the handle and do some eccentric 
thing that will send the whole affair off like a 
powder mill.” 

“What position does Mrs. Crewe take?” asked 
Besant. 

The attorney smiled faintly. “Mrs. Crewe,” he 
replied, “is a very extraordinary woman. I think 
that I can sum it up by saying that Mrs. Crewe is 
not a perfect balance wheel for the family. 

“In brief,” resumed Cramp, “all of us who are 
interested in the Crewe family feel that it is very 
necessary at this particular time that there should 
be some young, active man up there in the house¬ 
hold, as a safeguard, some one of good judgment, 
tact, and shrewd knowledge of the world, to do 
all the things that a brother or son would do—in 
short, all the things that Mr. Crewe himself would 
have done five years ago. The position would be 
entirely on a self-respecting basis. To all intents 




30 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


and purposes this young man would be a confi¬ 
dential representative of our own firm—of the 
Crewe estate, for that matter. Although I know 
that in your case the matter of money does 
not enter into the question; yet, merely to show 
you how highly we consider the responsibilities of 
the situation, I will say, right now, that we would 
offer you a thousand dollars a month and all 
expenses—for an indefinite period.” 

“That is a great deal of money,” said Royal 
Besant. but. as the lawyer had intimated, that was 
not at all the point that he was considering. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he continued, thoughtfully, “you 
are putting me into a very difficult position. Of 
course I understand that you are paying me a very 
genuine compliment. I appreciate that it is not 
everyone whom you would be willing to send up 
to Legget’s Harbor to enter into the intimate life 
of the Crewe family.” 

“Distinctly not!” interjected the lawyer. 

“At the same time,” pursued Besant, “I can’t 
seem to get away from my first repugnance to the 
whole idea. You are very courteous about it and 
I know that Mr. and Mrs. Crewe would be the 
same, but in cold fact I would not be there as a 
member of the family. I would not even be there 
in your own position of confidential attorney. I 
would simply be there as a paid informer.” 

To his surprise, the attorney did not take the 
offense at the word that he had expected. 

“Mr. Besant,” replied Cramp, “I really wonder 
whether you are not merely arguing against your- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


31 


self—whether you are not making a fetich of a 
word, a Quixotic point, a preconceived idea which 
has become fixed in your mind.” 

“But just what would you want me to do,” asked 
Besant, “if I should go up there?” 

“I will not attempt to gloss it over,” answered 
the lawyer. “You have already guessed. Your 
principal duty would be, of course, to keep an eye 
on this Buiz Serrano, form your own opinion of 
him, find out as much of his history as you can. 
But if, also, while you are there, the opportunity 
should present itself to keep Miss Cynthia Crewe 
from taking some sudden step which she would 
be sure to regret in the future, that also would 
be part of your duty. If such a chance should 
present itself and you should find it possible to 
prevent such a misfortune, you could be very sure 
that you would earn the sincere gratitude of the 
entire Crewe family.” 

But Boyal Besant was looking at him in an oddly 
fixed manner. “Mr. Cramp,” he demanded, “are 
you sure that that is actually what you want me 
to do?” 

The lawyer turned in surprise. “Why not?” 

Besant himself began to fumble with the stem 
of his pipe. “Is it not the plain truth,” he replied, 
slowly, “that what you really want me to do is go 
up there and load the dice?” 

At that term the lawyer did stiffen into an air 
that was slightly offended. “I don’t think I under¬ 
stand you.” 

But Royal Besant was not to be deterred. “Is it 




32 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


not true,” he insisted, “that my real duty would be 
to go up there and put this Ruiz Serrano, out of 
the running?” 

“Mr. Besant!” exclaimed the lawyer sharply. 
“I don’t think you realize what you are saying.” 

Almost instantly Cramp seemed to repent of his 
angry outburst, but nevertheless he retained for 
some moments the offended reserve of the confi¬ 
dential family attorney. 

“What we want,” he insisted, stiffly, “is the truth 
—and the whole truth. After that, I suppose that 
Mr. Crewe himself can take whatever steps he 
thinks advisable.” 

For his own part, Royal Besant had made no 
apology for his question and, further, gave no 
signs of making any. 

“Frankly, Mr. Cramp,” he asked, “have you any 
real reasons for distrusting Ruiz Serrano, except 
that you all dislike him and don’t think him a 
proper husband for Miss Cynthia Crewe?” 

The lawyer nodded. “Unfortunately we have— 
certain very grave reasons, but their nature is such 
that I do not think that it would be wise to tell 
them to you unless you were definitely enlisted in 
the case. They are facts that we certainly would 
not wish to disclose to an outsider.” 

“I can understand that,” agreed Besant, “and 
naturally I do not wish to ask them.” 

And with that, again, the whole matter seemed 
to come to a deadlock. Both men relapsed into a 
silence which threatened to become interminable 
until suddenly the lawyer turned, as if with a new 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


inspiration. His manner of injured dignity was 
now entirely gone. 

“Mr. Besant,” he suggested, “I see that it is hope¬ 
less to offer you pay for this mission. Will you 
undertake it for nothing?” 

Besant looked up, surprised. “Just what do you 
mean?” 

“I mean just what I say,” answered Cramp. “I 
see exactly how you feel about this affair and I 
have to confess that I sympathize with you entirely. 
In fact, your attitude in itself makes me more than 
ever convinced that you are exactly the kind of 
man that we are after. I cannot appeal to your 
interests, but can I not appeal to your chivalry? 
You know the facts. Here is a young lady of your 
own sort who is likely to find herself in a very 
ominous situation. There is no one in her own 
family who can properly step in and guard her 
safety. Representing her friends, I feel that you 
are the proper man and ask you to do it, just as 
I might ask her cousin or one of her closer rela¬ 
tions. Not a cent will ever be offered you. You 
can be your own free agent, form your own con¬ 
clusions, and drop the whole affair any minute 
you wish. You will simply be acting as any decent 
man of the world and honest friend of the Crewe 
family would act in similar circumstances.” 

The attorney paused while Besant looked again, 
rather unhappily, at the rank, thick grass at his 
feet. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he said, “you really do make me 
ashamed of myself. The way you put it seems to 




34 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


make it almost caddish when I try to get out of it.” 
He looked up quickly. “Have you got to know 
this minute?” 

The lawyer hesitated. “Time is valuable in this 
affair,” he replied. “The sooner you could get 
up there the better. But still- 

“I tell you what we will do,” continued the 
lawyer, eagerly; but, before he could finish, a most 
outlandish screech broke out behind them, fol¬ 
lowed by a loud clamor of angry voices. 





Chapter V 

B OTH men leaped to their feet and turned 
just in time to witness a most astounding 
spectacle. 

Across the lawn, in huge, angular leaps, came 
bounding Tim Hannigan, his tiny cook’s cap stili 
on one side of his head, the ends of his apron 
flying out behind him. Ten yards ahead of him 
scuttled a horrified peacock, half flying, half run¬ 
ning, his badly demoralized plumage trailing in 
masses behind him. Thirty yards ahead of the 
peacock, but on the other side of the wall, the 
Polish gardener of the Sanford estate could be 
seen sprinting for the shelter of the tool house, 
throwing away his hoe as he ran, like a terrified 
soldier throwing away his gun in the face of an 
overwhelming enemy. 

As soon as he could recover from his laughter, 
Besant added his own voice to the general din. 

“Tim! Come back here!” he ordered. “Tim! 
Scissors! Leave that bird alone!” 

Tim Hannigan, however, refused to answer to 
any of his names. He paid no attention until he 
had reached the wall, to which the peacock had 
beaten him by the length of its tail. There Tim 
stopped and contented himself by throwing clods 
of plowed turf at the retreating creature. At last 
he gave up the fight and went back to the kitchen, 
wiping his face on his purple sleeve and muttering 
35 




36 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


streams of unrepeatable language. Besant turned 
to his companion. 

“Unless I look out,” he suggested, “I am going to 
have a serious affair right here on my own hands, 
without looking any farther for trouble.” 

Cramp nodded his head toward the big stone 
house which stood sheltered in the midst of its 
trees in the center of the neighboring estate. 
“Are they friends of yours?” he asked. “Your 
neighbors ?” 

“No,” laughed Besant, “and at this rate they 
never will be. The place belongs to J. N. Sanford, 
a New York broker. The house has been closed 
all winter. I don’t know whether they are going 
to open it this summer or not.” 

“J. N. Sanford?” repeated Cramp. “I know him 
well. He ought to be a good neighbor.” 

He turned abruptly to his host and by his 
manner showed that he had at least one trait of 
a successful lawyer. He knew the wisdom of 
ending an interview at a favorable moment. He 
held out his hand. “Well, Mr. Besant, please think 
over what I have suggested. I am on my way now 
up to Mr. Crewe’s place at Legget’s Harbor, but I 
won’t say anything about our talk until your own 
mind is made up. I am coming back to-morrow.” 

With scarcely another word he had shaken 
hands and the motor car in which he had arrived 
was grinding away from the front of the house 
and turning out of the little driveway. 




Chapter VI 

W ITH a slow realization of just how canny 
the lawyer had actually been, Royal Besant 
turned back to a seat on a little stone terrace at 
the west side of his house, as Tim Hannigan, for 
the moment, had made the grape arbor untenable. 

If Cramp had only remained a minute more, 
Besant knew that he would have refused, point 
blank, to undertake this grotesque mission. Now, 
however, with the attorney already gone, he 
began to feel himself curiously committed to the 
adventure; but his reluctance, which only in¬ 
creased as the day wore on, was not so much due, 
now, to his original sense of distaste as to a sense 
of absurdity—to that and a woeful dislike of the 
idea of leaving the comfort and solitude of his 
own beloved little cottage. 

After lunch he found himself gravitating back 
to the terrace again. He lowered the awnings 
against the hot, slanting rays of the afternoon sun 
and, taking a book, attempted to regain his 
attitude of care-free indolence, but, as he already 
knew in his own heart, the visitor had injected 
in him the venom of unrest. He read scarcely a 
page in the book—and that only by the sternest 
effort. Constantly he found himself merely dream¬ 
ing over the lines, his real attention far away on 
the curious situation which the attorney had 
presented to him. 


37 




38 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


What did Miss Cynthia Crewe look like? he 
wondered. What sort of man really was this 
famous—or infamous—Ruiz Serrano? What were 
the facts about him that the attorney was keeping 
back? What would the daily routine of life be 
like in the big country house of the millionaire 
banker, Damon Crewe? How would he himself 
be treated and what might he be called on to do 
if he should actually accept the attorney’s invita¬ 
tion and—entirely gratuitously—attempt to mix 
his own hand in this odd situation? 

It must have been about four o’clock when, in 
the midst of his reveries, he heard his own name 
spoken and, looking up, saw a smiling young 
woman in sport clothes standing at the edge of 
the awning. She had evidently been watching his 
abstraction for some time, with keen amusement. 

Deeply embarrassed, Besant leaped to his feet 
and the girl hastened to explain herself. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Besant. I am Dorothy 
Sanford, your neighbor. I have come to see 
whether there is any way to keep your gardener 
from murdering mine. It would really be quite 
distressing to open the summer with blood on 
our hands.” 

Besant laughed. “I am awfully sorry about that. 
Miss Sanford. I have tried very hard to keep my 
wild man in leash. Tim has really the kindest 
heart in the world, but he is a man of sudden 
impulses.” 

“Yes,” admitted Miss Sanford, “but he’s got our 
prize Polack quaking with terror.” She imitated 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


39 


the frightened gardener with surprising vividness. 
“ ‘He keel me. Miss Sanfor’. He keel me. He 
like a dam’ Turk!’ ” 

Besant laughed again. 

“The principal issue,” he suggested, “seems to 
lie in a certain peacock.” 

“I know,” answered the girl. “T5iat absurd 
Randolph. That’s the peacock’s name. He’s a 
ghastly nuisance. He isn’t even a very good pea¬ 
cock—as such. Personally, I think he’s part bird- 
of-paradise or guinea hen or something like that. 
But father insists on having him around. They 
used to have one on some big estate that father 
used to admire when he was a farmer boy, ped¬ 
dling potatoes, so father thinks that a country 
place isn’t complete without a peacock. It’s been 
the dream of his life and, bless his heart, let him 
have one if he wants to.” 

“By all means!” agreed Besant. “I know just 
how he feels. When you hunger and thirst for a 
peacock there’s absolutely nothing that will take 
its place. I’ve already done everything I could 
to make my Tim steel himself against sudden 
anger. I’ll talk to him again—very sternly—make 
threats and so on. Perhaps I might put a collar 
around Tim’s neck and tie him to a crowbar 
driven in the lawn, the way they do cows.” 

A shade of apprehension crossed the girl’s face, 
“But you won’t discharge him, will you, or any¬ 
thing like that? I don’t think he really meant any 
harm and I’d hate to have a fuss start on my 
complaint.” 




40 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant laughed. “Good gracious, no! I 
wouldn’t fire Tim for the world and I don’t think 
he’d leave, even if I did. I couldn’t exist with¬ 
out him. Tim’s like your father’s peacock. As 
a valet he’s rather a mongrel, but to me he’s price¬ 
less. He has a strong sentimental value.” 

Besant turned a large wicker chair to face the 
lawn. “Won’t you sit down awhile? Can’t I 
offer you some tea?” 

The girl shook her head. “No, thank you. This 
isn’t really a formal neighborhood call. We can’t 
do that until we get the trunks unpacked and 
clean our white gloves with gasoline. We just 
arrived this morning.” 

She turned to go, but Besant sprang quickly to 
her side. 

“Anyway,” he suggested, “I can give you safe 
conduct through the enemy’s lines.” 

Together they walked, with no great haste, over 
the modest stretch of lawn which lay between the 
house and the wall. The girl turned casually 
back toward the cottage. 

“You know,” she said, “it’s awfully good to 
have the cottage occupied again. It was horrible 
to see it all boarded up, as it was for three years. 
I am a sociable soul. I like neighbors. I like 
to see the lights shining through the trees. I hope 
that you are going to be here all summer.” 

“Indeed I am!” answered Besant, but before the 
words were even finished he realized that they 
were probably not true and, with this new develop¬ 
ment, the realization was more vexatious than 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


41 


ever. “That is to say,” he amended, “I did expect 
to be here. I may possibly have to be away for 
a week or two, but not far, merely up at Legget’s 
Harbor.” 

“Legget’s Harbor!” echoed the girl. “Why, I 
have just come from there! I was visiting the 
Crewes. Do you know the Crewes? If you are 
going to Legget’s Harbor, you must. There is no 
one else there.” 

For an instant Besant debated mentally, but he 
had always found that one gained more than one 
lost from complete frankness. “Oddly,” he said, 
“that is just where I do expect to go—if I go at 
all.” 

“To the Crewes’?” asked his neighbor. “Isn’t 
that funny? Then of course you know Cynthia 
Crewe.” 

Besant shook his head. “I am sorry. I don’t. 
Like your own call this afternoon, my visit is to 
be largely a business matter. Miss Crewe’s father 
is interested in some work I have been doing.” 

“Well, I can’t say I envy you,” answered the 
girl. “Things are in a horrible mess up there just 
now.” 

“What about?” 

The girl looked at him shrewdly. “I guess you 
know just as well as I do. It’s a perfectly fright¬ 
ful place to visit. I don’t believe that any two 
members of the family are on speaking terms 
with each other. It’s like going to make a sociable 
visit in an icebox. Personally, I like a little merry 
chaff and sunshine.” 




42 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“So do I,” replied Besant. 

“Well, you won’t find it there,” answered the 
girl. “You’d better stick around with us and the 
peacock.” 

“I wish I could,” answered Besant. 

They had reached the wall. He gave Miss San¬ 
ford a hand to the top and she jumped lightly 
down, with a friendly nod, on the other side. 
Besant watched her for a moment as, without 
looking back, she made her way up through the 
trees of the little park, then turned, himself, back 
toward his own house. 

Halfway across the lawn he heard the telephone 
in his library jangling and, on reaching it, found 
a voice which he recognized as that of the village 
station agent. 

“Mr. Royal Besant?” asked the voice. “Telegram 
for you from Legget’s Harbor. Signed ‘Arthur 
Cramp.’ Shall I read it? All right. Are you 
ready? 

“ ‘Imperative you come at once. Take motor to Band- 
box Inn, Gaylordsville. Meet me there eight this evening. 
Be prepared for several days. Please do not refuse. Do 
not answer by wire, but be sure to come. 

Arthur Cramp/ ” 




Chapter VII 

A MOTOR guide showed that Gaylordsville lay 
thirty-six miles to the north by a road which 
wound like a thick, black ribbon across that part 
of the state. Legget’s Harbor was not so easily 
found, but was at last discovered as a tiny dot 
near the end of a blunt point of land. It was 
reached by no road that was recognized by the 
map, but apparently was only six or eight miles 
from Gaylordsville. Six o’clock, Besant decided, 
would be plenty of time for a start, and so in¬ 
formed Tim Hannigan. 

Tim, for his part, was delighted, for he gloried 
in driving the car under any conditions. Half 
an hour before the time set he appeared, looking 
very subdued and respectable in his best brown 
suit, and began to close all the blinds and lock up 
the house. This done, he handed his master a 
good cigar, lighted one himself, and announced to 
Besant that he was ready “any time now.” 

Thus, at six to a dot, the car turned out of the 
side road into the concrete highway and began to. 
hum swiftly northward. The high, firm ground 
which surrounded the village of Manhasset soon 
gave way to a long stretch of flat, salt marshes, 
relieved now and then by a lone, gaunt tree over 
which, like as not, a single hawk would be hover¬ 
ing, like a turkey buzzard. Set against the hot, red 
circle of the late afternoon sun the effect was 
43 




44 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


strangely tropical. It suggested rice plantations 
and slave days and Southern swamps in a way 
that appealed to a certain melancholy strain in 
Besant’s rather wistful nature. It had been one 
of the most difficult tasks of his whole proprietor¬ 
ship to teach Tim Hannigan that at times such 
as this he liked to be left in absolute silence, but 
on this occasion, for once, Tim seemed to remem¬ 
ber the rule. Neither master nor man spoke a 
word until nearly thirty miles had been passed 
and, in the treacherous, steel-colored light which 
comes between daylight and darkness, they began 
to meet an occasional car with cold, flashing head 
lamps, at which Tim remembered that their own 
tail light was only working spasmodically. He 
stopped, went to the rear of the car, cuffed the 
offending light back into action, and the motor 
ticked on again peacefully northward. 

The odd but very genuine friendship which 
existed between Royal Besant and his curious 
servant had begun twelve years before with a 
chivalric incident. Both of them had stepped 
aside from the day’s routine to assist a lady in 
distress. It had been a very old lady, to be sure, 
and their efforts had not been thoroughly 
appreciated, but the act had been sufficient to make 
their interests forever one. 

Tim Hannigan had been a train boy at the 
time, and Royal Besant had been a cub reporter, 
commuting on the Harlem Division. One day a 
rather rustic-looking old lady had been apparently 
taken very ill on the train, and Royal Besant, with 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


45 


Tim Hannigan’s help, had assisted her off at 
White Plains, from where the train had gone on 
and left them both stranded. The conductor had 
supposed that Besant belonged with the old lady, 
while Tim Hannigan had been in the station, 
trying to get a tin cup of water, but had been 
delayed in his errand of mercy because the cup 
was fastened with a chain. As soon as the train 
had gone on and the crowd of onlookers had dis¬ 
persed, it developed that the old lady was merely 
an eccentric and querulous character who had in¬ 
tended to get off at White Plains in the first place. 
Nothing was the matter with her except that she 
liked to make a fuss. She was taken in charge by 
an ill-tempered man with a flowing beard, who 
drove her away in a hack, returning no thanks to 
anybody, but leaving Besant and Tim Hannigan 
with a wait of nearly two hours on the station plat¬ 
form. 

From that day on, Tim Hannigan had fastened 
himself to Royal Besant like a friendly leech. 
Probably Besant was the first person of education 
and apparent position who had ever been willing 
to listen respectfully to the lad’s endless jabber. 
Tim formed the practice of leaving his iron-bound 
news box every day on a seat in the smoker, thus 
reserving a place for his friend and patron. As 
soon as Besant appeared Tim would move his box 
to the floor, sit down beside him, and pour out 
his ambitions to a listener who was sometimes 
amused and always sympathetic. These ambitions 
of Tim’s were entirely pugilistic and, at the time. 




46 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


they seemed in a fair way to be realized, for Tim 
was both quick and big and had been fighting 
almost since infancy in all the freight yards of 
the New York Central. 

Very shortly, however, nature put a disastrous 
end both to Tim Hannigan’s main profession and 
to his ultimate dreams. Already large for his 
age, he suddenly started to shoot straight into the 
air at a rate that promised to be endless. When 
he had passed six feet three with no sign of a 
halt, he was obliged to give up his work as a train 
boy. Age, as Tim often lamented, would have 
been no bar. In after years he used to speak 
regretfully of train “boys” he had known who were 
over forty, but even the humorless eyes of a rail¬ 
road balked at the sight of a “newsboy” who had 
to stoop every time that he entered a Pullman. 

Thus Tim had been forced prematurely into 
professional ranks as a fighter and, if one were 
to believe his own account, he had been, for 
the next six or eight years, one of the leading 
lights of the sporting world of New York City. 
As a matter of fact, he had been merely one of 
its comic characters, although in some ways 
rather a tragic one. 

He had never appeared in a public bout. How 
could he? In spite of his skeleton frame, Tim 
seemed to have been a fast, rangy boxer and 
naturally he had a colossal reach. But the trouble 
was to find anyone with whom to match him. At 
seventeen, when he should have made his proper 
debut, he was already six feet, five inches in 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


47 


height, but weighed only a hundred and thirty- 
two pounds. To have put him against an ordinary 
lightweight would have looked like a fight between 
Mutt and Jeff, or like a grown man maltreating a 
child. Any crowd would have hooted them out 
of the ring. One or two friendly managers ex¬ 
pected that ultimately Tim would develop into 
an average heavyweight but he never did. The 
maximum weight that he ever reached was barely 
a hundred and fifty. He was destined to remain, 
apparently, one of nature’s unfinished jobs—like 
a double house of which one half has never been 
built. 

Unwilling to leave the field of his chosen ambi¬ 
tions, Tim gradually drifted into all the odd 
occupations by which such men retain their right 
to exist in the sporting world. He was a rubber, 
a waiter in training camps, a tout, usher, watch¬ 
man, and sometimes a sparring partner for slow 
heavyweights who would have killed him if they 
had ever struck him squarely in the ribs. More 
often than not he was merely tolerated for his 
high good humor and his funny face. Every fight 
audience knew “Scissors” Hannigan and always 
gave him a cheer. Between times Tim would drift 
into other ventures at which such men will labor 
as long as they are not sullied with the actual 
name of “work.” He used to appear around the 
tents of traveling carnivals, he would sell cigars 
at the ballgrounds, and once, for a week or two, 
he threatened to become a stage hand at the 
Hippodrome. 




48 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


During all of this time Tim scrupulously kept 
up his acquaintance with Royal Besant, for, like 
the entire sporting world, he had implicit faith in 
the ability of newspaper men to make and unmake 
reputations. Nor could he ever quite grasp the 
fact that Besant had nothing to do with the sport¬ 
ing page. Tim himself could have seen no other 
reason for working on a paper. From time to 
time Besant actually would accompany him to 
some third-rate fight in Harlem or Jersey City 
and write up a subtly jocular column in which 
Tim himself would be made to appear as the 
principal figure of the evening. These “write¬ 
ups” Tim would carefully cherish and carry 
around in his pocket for months as being literally 
true. 

The one stroke of good luck which brightened 
poor Tim’s unhappy life lay in the fact that, at' 
just the moment when he was reaching the 
absolute bottom of his fortunes, his patron was 
about to leap to the summit of his. For weeks 
Tim Hannigan had been coming around to the 
Record office for “loans” which had tapered from 
five and ten dollars down to fifty cents, when 
Royal Besant had suddenly read of his own 
unexpected inheritance. His first act of largesse 
had been to put Tim on the permanent payroll. 
He had had, to be sure, no great faith in the ex¬ 
periment, but, to his surprise, it had succeeded 
very well. Like all such men, there was abso¬ 
lutely nothing which Tim Hannigan would admit 
that he could not do—from rolling a lawn to 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


49 


making an omelette. In revolt all his life against 
discipline and dictatorship, he would work 
twenty-four hours a day under the stimulus of 
flattery. 

As for Tim Hannigan himself, he had apparently 
reached in Manhasset his ideal seventh heaven. 
Among the idlers around the village garage and 
the Portuguese lunch room he became an oracle 
and a lord. His pugilistic ability he was always 
ready to prove with a quick demonstration, and 
for that reason his other stories of sporting life 
in high circles were taken as true. At least Tim 
believed that they were, but it is possible that 
the young fishermen and chauffeurs who con¬ 
gregated in Henning’s garage or Portuguese Joe’s 
illicit back parlor were apt to “josh” him rather 
more than he realized. 




Chapter VIII 

T OWARD eight o’clock, when the summer 
evening was now becoming thoroughly dusky 
and the car should have been almost at Gaylords- 
ville, Tim suddenly put on his brakes with a grunt. 
Ahead, a long bar was stretched on two kegs 
across the road and, beyond it, a steam roller, 
piles of loose stone, and other signs of construc¬ 
tion work loomed in the gathering twilight. 
Temporary signs, hanging under red lanterns, 
showed “detours” in both directions and, on 
general principles, Besant chose the one to the 
right. For some time it seemed to be a wise 
choice, a fairly good country road, but at the end 
of a mile a second choice offered itself at a fork, 
and this time Besant chose the road to the left, 
supposing, naturally, that it would bear back to 
the main highway. 

A very few hundred yards proved that this 
second choice was a poor one, for the road 
showed less and less signs of travel until at last 
the long grass and tall weeds began to tinkle 
against the number plate at the front of the car. 
Nevertheless, they drove on until a dim lamp was 
discernible in a farmhouse and Tim got out to 
ask directions. 

The course of their travel had long since left 
the region of salt marshes, striking six or seven 
miles inland. In this part of the country the dark, 
50 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


51 


looming landscape was distinctly rural. As soon as 
Tim had silenced the engine to its lowest point 
there sprang up immediately the chirp of crickets 
and “peepers,” and while Besant sat waiting in 
the darkness there came to' him faintly the scent 
of distant lilacs or honeysuckle. 

But also, as Besant sat there waiting in the dark¬ 
ness, he slowly became aware of a curious, faint, 
rustling and scratching sound over his shoulder. 
He would almost have said that it was in the rear 
of the car. The faint noise stopped, then began 
again. Besant turned and peered into the dark¬ 
ness, expecting to see some prowling cat or 
belated, exploring chicken around the farmer’s 
neglected fence. He saw nothing and, a moment 
later, forgot all about it when Tim came bounding 
down the farmer’s front path and jumped into the 
car. 

“The man says we could get to Gaylordsville 
on this road if we wanted,” announced Tim, “but 
it’s very rough and he wouldn’t advise us to try. 
He says we hadn’t ought to turned at that last 
fork. We should have ought to gone on and then 
taken the second left.” 

The directions sounded simple enough, as such 
directions always do, but, when the car was back 
on the other road from the fork, a number of 
cart paths developed and caused the usual dis¬ 
cussion as to whether any of them could be 
counted as the “first left.” At last an old sagging 
guide post in the darkness seemed to offer promise 
and Tim climbed out to examine it with a match. 




52 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“We’re all right,” he shouted, cheerily, “ ‘Gay- 
lordsville one M.’ ” 

While Tim had been gone, however, Besant had 
again become aware of the faint, mysterious 
scratching and rustling in the rear of the car. 

“Tim,” he demanded, “what in the world have 
you got back there in the car that’s moving 
around? Just listen! Now! Hear it?” 

In perfect innocence Tim listened and then 
gave a yell. 

“Oh, good gosh!” he exclaimed, “that must be 
the ferret! I’d forgot all about him.” 

In guilty haste he opened the slanting deck at 
the rear of the roadster, then brought into the 
glow of the dash light a peach basket with burlap 
tied over the top. Through the slats of the basket 
could be seen a pair of beady eyes like shoe 
buttons and a long, sinuous, writhing body. 

“Where in thunder did you ever get that?” asked 
Besant. 

“From the man who first told me about him,” 
replied Tim. He grinned in a shamefaced way. 
“But I guess his principal object was to unload a 
second-hand ferret, ’cause the boys at the garage 
told me later that that was all nonsense about a 
ferret chasing peacocks. 

“But, anyway,” Tim consoled himself, “he don’t 
stand me in but a dollar. That’s what I give the 
man on deposit. We agreed on a price of four dol¬ 
lars in all, and double or quits according to 
whether he did or did not lick the peacock. But I 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


53 


guess that’s all off. The man’s got my dollar, but 
I’ve got the ferret. 

“And that reminds me, Mr. Besant,” added Tim. 
“I’ve got some sandwiches there in the back of the 
car. It’s lucky this little rascal didn’t get at ’em. 
Probably that’s why he was scratching. Smelled 
the olives.” 

Putting the ferret back in the rear of the car, 
Tim took out a paper package which he 
untied and offered to Besant. As soon as Besant’s 
hand, however, had grasped a thin, moist sand¬ 
wich, he knew that it was none of Tim’s manu¬ 
facture. He held the dainty slices of bread and 
lettuce leaves under the dash light. 

“Where did these come from?” he asked. 

Tim grinned in sheepish amusement. “Them?” 
he returned. “Them’s a gift from a friend. Go 
ahead and look at the box.” 

Imperiously he forced the package into his 
master’s lap and, not knowing in the least what 
it was all about, Besant pushed aside the paper 
coverings. At one end of the box, besides the 
sandwiches and a row of stuffed eggs, was a tiny 
toy suitcase, about three inches square, of the 
kind sold in candy shops for dinner favors. To 
the little handle was tied a card with the words 
“Bon voyage!” written gayly in a vigorous, 
feminine hand. 

“Open it,” insisted Tim. “Go on and open the 
suitcase.” 

Besant opened the absurd little traveling bag 
and found within it a miniature outfit, complete, 




54 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


consisting of brush, comb, mirror, and even a 
tooth brush, none of them more than an inch and 
a half long. There was also a bottle of scent in 
size to correspond. Apparently nothing had been 
forgotten. In the top of the suitcase were tucked 
little sheets of notepaper and envelopes about 
as big as one’s thumb nail. Underneath the 
brushes were some pieces of striped pink cloth, 
neatly folded, and, impatient of his master’s 
apparent stupidity, Tim reached in and held them 
up to the light. They proved to be an infinitesimal 
pair of pajamas—of a size to fit a very small 
brownie—but with Besant’s own initials, “R.B.,” 
neatly embroidered on the breast pocket. 

Besant turned to Tim. “Where in the world 
did all this come from?” 

Tim was chuckling with delight. “The young 
lady next door. Miss Sanford, she sent ’em. She 
and me fixed it all up together.” 

“Miss Sanford?” repeated Besant. “But how did 
you come to know Miss Sanford?” 

“Well, it was like‘this,” explained Tim. “You 
see, I knew that she had come over this afternoon 
to put in a kick about me and the peacock. I 
was afraid maybe I’d got you in wrong. So while 
you was looking up in the guide book about the 
roads I see her walking down toward the stables 
and I hops over the wall and told her it wasn’t 
your fault. I told her I didn’t mean nothing by 
running the Polack. That was just my way. 

“So then we gets to talking, the way people do, 
and I told her me and you was just starting off 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


55 


on a long motor trip up the coast. I thought I’d 
make it sound important while I was about it. I 
said I’d got to hustle back and get the house all 
fixed up ready or you’d give me hob. Then she 
asked me if you was that kind of a man and, I 
says: “Oh, no! He’s a fine man, only kind of-’ ” 

“Only kind of what?” interrupted Besant. 

Tim grinned. “‘Only kind of sleepy.’ That’s 
what I told her, but you understand we was just 
joking. But I says, anyway, that I got to go back 
and put up a lunch to eat on the road, and she says 
what’s the use? Seems her and her maid had 
just come in by motor, themselves, and they had 
a lunch that they hadn’t even touched. We was 
welcome to it. ‘Gome up and get it,’ she says. So 
up we goes to the house and, Gee! Mr. Besant, 
it’s a swell joint, believe me! Almost as big as the 
New York Athletic Club! But all the furniture 
was still covered up—like with sheets. The 
servants ain’t coming ’til to-morrow or next day, 
’cept that one maid, and I didn’t see her. Miss 
Sanford she says she’s the cook, herself, and a 
damn good one, she says. I didn’t believe her 
until she took me into the kitchen, and there was 
her coat and her bags all dumped down, just where 
she’d left ’em. 

“So, next she fished out this box of eats and I 
thanked her. But suddenly she began to laugh 
and says. ‘Wait a minute.’ Then she went 
climbing off upstairs. I could hear her giggling 
up there with her maid or someone. Then down 
she hops with this comic little suitcase, all written 




56 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


out with that note and everything, and we packs 
it in with the sandwiches. 

“Well, you know how one thing leads to another. 
We was standing there, wondering what we could 
put in it besides the brushes and comb, and she 
says, ‘Oh I know!’ and off she flickers again 
upstairs, and comes back with a little doll dressed 
up in these pajamas. She took ’em off, but they 
was glued in one place and I had to help her with 
a nut picker. Then, when we was packing ’em 
in, all tidy, I says, ’They’d ought to have initials 
on ’em, like Kid McCoy’s.’ She said that was a 
ripe idea and went off and comes back with a 
needle and thread and sewed ’em on before you 
could bat your eyelash. Say, let me tell you she’s 
a fast worker. And that’s how it happened.” 

“I see,” commented Besant, smiling quietly. 
“But in the meantime we ought to have been in 
Gaylordsville twenty minutes ago.” 

“It won’t take us long,” reassured Tim. “The 
signpost says it’s only one M.” 

And this time, at least, the signpost was right, 
for the country road lasted only a few hundred 
yards more. At the foot of a short, steep hill it 
joined again with the concrete highway and almost 
immediately the car bowled under the arching 
elms and sparse electric lights of Gaylordsville. 
From the time they had left their last stopping 
place, neither Besant nor Tim had spoken a word 
until they turned in at the gravel driveway of 
the Bandbox Inn, where Tim, who had been think¬ 
ing deeply, gave a short chuckle. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


57 


“Mr. Besant,” he said, “I’ve got a brain wave. 
Why don’t you take that suitcase and write her 
a letter on one of those little bantamweight 
envelopes?” 




Chapter IX 

F OR the next half hour, however, Besant was 
to have little time to think either of Miss 
Sanford or the suitcase. As he walked up the 
steps of the inn, Arthur Cramp rose eagerly from 
the shadows of the vine-covered piazza. 

“I began to think you weren’t coming,” he 
announced. “It’s tremendously good of you that 
you did.” 

Besant laughed rather wryly. “I’m glad that 
you’re not selling books,” he replied. “You have 
a subtle way of making a man do what you want 
before he even knows where he’s at.” 

Cramp answered his laugh “I hope it’s not as bad 
as that.” 

“Oh, no!” confessed Besant. “I’ll admit that 
I’m getting exceedingly interested, but you must 
grant a lazy man the right to groan.” 

In five or six minutes a pleasant-faced New 
England woman in a white apron came to the 
screen door and looked inquiringly at Cramp, 
who nodded and led the way into the house. 

“I’ve engaged a private dining room,” he 
informed Besant. “It will give us a chance to 
talk.” 

Besant followed him down the old-fashioned 
hall to a door under the stairs, but, as he turned 
in, his last glimpse was of Tim Hannigan, his 
hair soaked and brushed to the nines, already 

58 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


59 


seated in lone state in a corner of the main dining 
room, attacking a platter of cold ham and 
pickles. 

The “private dining room” was obviously a 
bedroom, in which all the original furnishings 
still remained, except the bed, but Cramp had 
ordered a tender steak and other persuasive hot 
dishes in place of the usual cold supper which 
was offered by the menu of the inn. As soon as 
the steak had been served, Cramp closed the door, 
glanced at the open, screened window, and leaned 
back from the table. 

“Well,” he announced, “we’re up against a fine 
kettle of fish!” 

“What’s happened?” asked Besant. 

“Miss Cynthia Crewe,” replied the attorney, 
“has left home—walked out—last night.” 

For a moment Besant said nothing, for, as the 
lawyer had spoken the words, a curious flash had 
come across his mind, one of those maddening 
thoughts that escape one’s consciousness just 
before one can pin them down—the feeling that 
one knows the answer to a certain thing, but can’t 
seem to identify it among the general pictures 
that float through one’s mind. It was like one of 
those lucid, satisfying answers to a problem that 
come to a wakening sleeper just between dreaming 
and daylight. In the instant of their passing, one 
knows that they are a perfect answer to the 
problem in mind, but, on waking completely, one 
can never recover them intact. Thus Cramp’s 
words had connected themselves instantly in 




60 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant’s mind with something that he already 
knew. But what was it? That was what just 
escaped him. 

All this had taken only a second of time, but to 
Besant it seemed to have taken much more. 

“Miss Crewe has left home?” he repeated. He 
looked up and saw the lawyer sitting placidly 
enough. “You don’t seem very much worried 
about it.” 

“Well, I’m not,” answered Cramp, “in the sense 
that she’s in danger or anything of that kind. She 
told her maid that she was going and took some 
of her things. She also left a note for her father, 
but it didn’t say much. I’ll show it to you 
presently, if you think it necessary. So far as all 
that’s concerned she’s able to take care of her¬ 
self. But naturally the family is in a horrible 
stew. They haven’t any idea where she is. I 
found them at their wits’ end when I arrived there 
this noon.” 

By this time Besant considered himself 
sufficiently in the case to ask the obvious question. 

“How about this Ruiz Serrano?” he suggested. 
“Has he left, too?” , 

“That’s the funny part of it,” answered Cramp. 
“No, he’s still there—up at Legget’s Harbor. As 
nearly as I could judge, it was as much a mystery 
to him as to all the others. He was as much 
worried about it as anyone else.” 

“And that may mean,” said Besant, “that Miss 
Crewe is not as much in love with him as you all 
seem to believe.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


61 


“That’s possible,” answered the lawyer, “but I 
don’t think it’s probable—after all that’s gone on 
for over a year.” 

“But at any rate she may have had a tiff with 
him. Possibly he wouldn’t leave the house and so 
she did.” 

“I thought of that, too,” replied Cramp, “but 
there hadn’t been any signs of it. We know that 
they had been together all of that morning and all 
of the evening before—talking very earnestly about 
something or other.” 

The lawyer drew himself back to the table with 
a sudden air of impatience. “You see, Mr. Besant, 
that’s what makes the whole affair so completely 
maddening. No decent father and mother can 
spend the whole day spying and snooping after 
their own daughter as if she were a thieving 
housemaid or a common crook.” 

“That’s what I told you, myself,” answered 
Besant, quietly. 

“I know you did,” admitted the lawyer, “but 
nevertheless, here we are! Facts are facts.” 

“But how does all this change my status?” asked 
Besant. “Now that Miss Crewe has left home, 
what do you want me to do about that?” 

“Find her,” replied the lawyer, grimly. 

“Umm!” answered Besant. 

To the lawyer at least there did not seem to be 
anything funny about it, and Besant himself 
couldn’t say that there was. 

“Of course,” he suggested, “you’ve always got 
to take up a trail from the place where it starts. 




62 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


That means that I should have to go out to Mr. 
Crewe’s house at Legget’s Harbor as soon as 
possible.” 

“I intended to have you go to-night.” 

“Are you going with me?” 

The attorney shook his head. “I think that that 
would defeat the whole program—if it were 
known that you had any connection with me.” 
He smiled to himself. “I am afraid that I am not 
very popular with the feminine members of the 
Crewe family and it would be wholly natural if 
Ruiz Serrano regarded me with distrust. He 
knows that I don’t like him. In my capacity as 
financial watchdog of the Crewe estate it has been 
necessary for me to throw many a wet blanket on 
some wild scheme. Mr. Crewe had been almost 
persuaded to buy a big Diesel yacht this summer 
and to promise the backing for a symphony 
orchestra next winter—with this Serrano as con¬ 
ductor, I suppose. I know that I am blamed 
personally for putting a quick stop to both of 
those mad ideas. No, it would be best for you 
to appear there entirely independently of me. 
That is one reason why I had you meet me here.” 

“But yet you telegraphed me openly from 
Legget’s Harbor,” suggested Besant. 

“I hesitated about that,” answered Cramp, “but 
I didn’t think that there would be any risk. The 
household never uses the Legget’s Harbor station. 
It is only open at train times. They send all their 
own telegrams from Black Point.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


63 


“But yet there must be some excuse for my going 
up there,” said Besant. 

The lawyer smiled slightly. “I took the liberty,” 
he replied, “of making you into a mining engineer. 
You see all of Mr. Crewe’s confidential men in 
the banking business are known to the family 
already but from time to time some young mining 
man, usually from the West or South, does come 
up for a few days’ conference. It seemed to be 
the only plausible way.” 

“That’s all right,” agreed Besant, “except that 
I don’t know anything about mining, if anyone 
should happen to ask me.” 

“Who would?” asked the lawyer. 

“You never can tell,” answered Besant. 

“And next to finding out where Miss Cynthia 
Crewe has gone,” he added, “I suppose that my 
real job is still to keep an eye on Ruiz Serrano.” 

“Exactly,” answered Cramp. It was apparently 
a relief to him that Besant had at last accepted 
the idea. 

Besant considered the possibilities for a moment. 
“Now this morning,” he suggested, “you intimated 
that you had some rather ugly facts about 
Serrano that you were holding back. Do you wish 
to tell them now.?” 

“I presume I had better,” agreed Cramp. Again 
he glanced cautiously toward the open window and 
put his hand to his inside pocket, then hastily 
withdrew it, for a step had sounded in the hall 
and a thunderous knock had come on the door. 




Chapter X 

B ESANT was not as startled by the knock as the 
lawyer had been. “That’s my Tim,” he an¬ 
nounced. “He always knocks at a door as if he 
were going to break it down. . . . Come in, 
Tim!” he called. “What is it?” 

Tim opened the frail, old-fashioned door, com¬ 
pletely filling the frame. “Say, Mr. Besant,” he 
demanded, “do you want me to bring in the bags, 
or what? I thought if you was going to be here 
some time, I’d go out and look around the town 
and see if there’s anything doing.” 

At the mention of “bags” Cramp looked up 
quickly. “So you did bring your luggage?” he 
asked. “Prepared to stay?” 

“Oh yes,” answered Besant, absently. “That 
was what you suggested.” 

As a matter of fact, however, Besant was hardly 
listening to the other man, for at Tim’s mention 
of “bags” there had come to him quite another 
suggestion. In an instant his memory had slipped 
back into its proper cog. He had found the miss¬ 
ing idea for which, a few minutes before, his mind 
had been vainly searching. He looked up at Tim. 

“I’ll let you know in three or four minutes,” he 
said. “You might go out and wait around the 
car.” 

The moment that the door had been shut behind 
Tim, Besant turned back to the table with 
64 


an 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


65 


alert, smiling air that was quite new to the lawyer. 
He held out his hand almost imperiously. 

“Didn’t you say,” he asked, “that when Miss 
Crewe went away she left a note for her father?” 

With some hesitation the lawyer handed it over, 
but as soon as he had looked at the note Besant 
could understand perfectly the reason for his 
reluctance. Written in a firm, strong hand on the 
heavy stationery of the Legget’s Harbor estate, 
the little note was touching in its simple direct¬ 
ness. 

Dear Father: 

Something has happened which makes it necessary 
that I should go away for a short time. I am in no mood 
to talk about it now. Don’t worry and don’t let mother 
stir up things too much. You know in your heart that 
I can be trusted to do the right thing in the long run. 

Love—your daughter, 

Cynthia. 

As he looked up from the little note, Besant felt 
almost apologetic that he had asked to see it at all. 
Its quiet, sad tone almost checked at its source 
the inspiration which had come into his mind, 
but his reason told him that a certain guess which 
lay in the hack of his mind was still probably 
right. 

“This note shows one thing, at least,” he com¬ 
mented. “It shows that Miss Crewe is closer in 
affection to her father than to anyone else in the 
family.” 

“That is quite true,” agreed the lawyer. “And 
her father is to her. He worships her, really. It’s 
cutting him up pretty badly—all this mess.” 




66 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


For a moment longer Besant sat in thought, then 
abruptly glanced toward the open window and 
saw Tim Hannigan wandering up and down the 
driveway. At his call Tim came stamping up on 
the porch and peered in through the window. It 
gave him the air of a small boy stooping to peer 
in at a cave. 

“Tim,” said Besant, “how long would it take 
you to drive back to Manhasset?” 

Tim Hannigan responded with his usual gay 
insolence. “It’s you,” he retorted, “who will never 
let me really step on her. Let me boss the old 
boat the way I want and we’d been here in half 
the time that we did take.” 

“An hour?” suggested Besant. 

“Well, perhaps,” answered Tim. “Maybe a 
little more for the deetoor.” 

Besant turned to the lawyer. “How soon ought 
I to be over at Legget’s Harbor?” 

“No fixed time,” answered Cramp, rather 
puzzled. “But what are you going to do?” 

“There’s something I’d like to get from home,” 
said Besant, “before I go any further. It may be 
a false trail and yet it may clear up a lot of the 
mystery right at the start.” 

He turned to the window. “Tim, take out my 
bag and get the car backed around. I’m not going 
with you and you can drive as fast as you like. If 
you get arrested, Mr. Cramp will go bail.” 

“But look here,” suggested Cramp. “If you are 
not going, yourself why don’t you let me send 
you over to Legget’s Harbor in another car and 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


67 


have your man follow you when he gets back. He 
can find the place very easily. It’s the biggest 
house in this part of the country.” 

“Sure! I can find it,” agreed Tim. “There ain’t 
no place that I can get lost very long.” 

“All right, then,” said Besant. He rose to his 
feet and nodded to the lawyer. “I’ll be back in a 
minute. 

Passing out through the front door, he joined 
his servant at the car. 

“Tim,” he asked, quietly, “when you talked with 
Miss Sanford this afternoon, how did she look? 
Tall? Short? Light? Dark? Or what?” 

“How did she look?” returned Tim, indignantly. 
“She looked just the way she always looks— 
yellow hair, about half my size, and always laugh¬ 
ing. I knew who she was, all right. I seen her 
when she come over to talk to you—earlier in the 
afternoon.” 

Besant nodded briefly. He had been merely 
checking up on a possible point of his evidence. 

“Now, Tim,” he continued, “did you tell Miss 
Sanford just where we were going this evening? 
You didn’t say so, but I thought that perhaps you 
had forgotten it.” 

Tim wilted slightly. “To tell the truth I did say 
we was going first up to Legget’s Harbor to visit 
some old friends of yours. She wanted to know 
and I told her. I didn’t think there was any harm 
in it.” 

Besant smiled slightly to himself. “And did 




68 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Miss Sanford,” he pursued, “ask you anything 
about Mr. Cramp’s visit—this morning?” 

“Now that I think of it,” said Tim, “she did say 
something about it, but I’ve forgotten just what it 
was. I told her I didn’t know who he was, 
myself.” 

“And you say there was nobody else in the house 
when you were there?” 

“I told you there was nobody there except Miss 
Sanford’s own maid, and I didn’t see her —just 
heard her giggle. Least I heard somebody giggle.” 

“All right, Tim. Tune up the car and wait here 
until I come back; but first hand me that little 
suitcase that Miss Sanford gave you.” 

“Going to write that letter to her on that little 
paper?” asked Tim in great glee, and Besant knew 
that Tim’s own pride of invention would add 
speed to the trip if he himself confessed the 
truth. 

“Yes,” he replied, “that is just what I am going 
to do, and you are going to deliver it. I’ll be 
back in a minute.” 

At the front of the inn, Besant found a general 
parlor and writing room with a desk in the corner, 
rather dim and entirely vacant. Laying the tiny 
suitcase on the desk, he put beside it Miss Crewe’s 
letter which Cramp had given him and looked 
quickly back and forth from the letter to the card 
on the suitcase. Once or twice he rubbed his thumb 
over the words “Bon voyage.” 

Smiling to himself, Besant took one of the 
minute envelopes and a sheet of the little note- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


69 


paper from the suitcase. It was a regular watch¬ 
maker’s task to get more than three or four words 
on each side of the tiny paper, but his message had 
already been condensed to its simplest proportions 
in his own mind. 

The grotesque little letter finished and addressed 
to his own satisfaction, Besant took it out to Tim, 
who slipped it into his vest pocket. 

“Now drive back to Manhasset as fast as you 
can,” Besant directed, “and if you see lights in 
Miss Sanford’s house, call her up from our house 
on the telephone and say that you have a message 
from me which you would like to deliver. Tell 
her you’d like to bring back an answer to-night. 
But don’t, in any case, go there first without calling 
her up. If she’s all alone it might alarm her. If 
you don’t see any lights or can’t get her on the 
phone, wait until morning and give her the letter 
then. Then follow me up and bring me the 
answer at Mr. Damon Crewe’s house at Legget’s 
Harbor.” 

“Key-reckt!” answered Tim as he jumped into 
the car and before Besant was well inside the inn 
he could hear the car roaring out of the driveway. 

Smiling to himself, but, now that it was done, 
rather daunted at his own impertinence, Besant 
passed on to join the attorney. On the little 
envelope which was now speeding southward at 
forty miles an hour in Tim’s vest pocket, was 
written, 

Miss Dorothy Sanford. 

Kindness of Tim. 




70 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Inside the envelope were these words: 

My dear Miss Sanford: 

Thank you and also Miss Cynthia Crewe for the lunch 
and the trousseau. If you still have Miss Crewe concealed 
in the upper regions of your house, will you kindly tell 
her to come home at once? 

Austerely, your neighbor. 

Royal Besant. 




Chapter XI 

T HE smile with which Besant returned down 
the narrow hallway of the inn was quickly 
dissipated as he entered the little dining room 
under the stairs, for the manner with which the 
attorney was awaiting him was anything but flip¬ 
pant. Without preliminary, Cramp took a long 
leather folder from his inside pocket and sorted 
out a series of papers of different sizes. 

“Now for the case of Senor Serrano,” he 
announced. 

Besant took his seat at the other side of the 
table, lighted his pipe, and waited for the story. 

“In the first place,” began Cramp, “Mr. Crewe 
has been receiving some very ominous letters for 
some little time.” 

To the lawyer’s slight chagrin, Besant did not 
seem surprised. He did not even seem very much 
interested. 

“I wondered,” he replied, “whether anonymous 
letters lay at the bottom of this. They usually do. 
They are anonymous, are they not?” 

The lawyer flushed. “Well, yes, in a way. That 
is, they can’t be traced.” 

“Are these the ones?” asked Besant. 

At the attorney’s nod, he took the first from a 
pile of three or four. 

“That’s the first one,” commented Cramp, as 
71 




72 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant opened it. “At least it’s the first that I 
have in my possession.” 

Besant ran his eye over the letter with an interest 
that was still only perfunctory. The note was 
written in a painful, illiterate hand on the cheapest 
of violet-ruled paper. It had no date or address 
at the top of the sheet. It read: 

Der Mr. Crewe: 

I lern Ruiz Serrano going to mary your daughter. No 
let him do it. I warn you, a trend. I no rite English 
good. I his country woman. Ask him why he leave 
Spain and go to Mexico so sudden. He no want to an¬ 
swer. I no some things I no tell. I warn you. 

Amigo. 

Besant laid down the sheet and glanced at the 
envelope in which it had been contained. It was 
addressed to Mr. Damon Crewe at the Federal 
Club, a fact which Besant noted mentally, but on 
which he made no comment. The other letters, 
which he ran through hurriedly, were all of the 
same general stamp, although one or two of them 
were typed on thin little slips of paper and 
written in correct English. They hinted at all 
sorts of things which none of them exactly stated. 
The envelopes were jiostmarked from various 
places ranging from the Madison Square Station, 
in New York City, to a little town in California. 
They had been sent to almost all of Damon 
Crewe’s possible addresses, including Legget’s 
Harbor. 

Besant tossed down the last of them with an 
expression which was not lost on the attorney. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


73 


“You don’t seem to attach very much impor¬ 
tance to them,” Cramp remarked. 

“No, not very much,” replied Besant. “That 
is, not for themselves. Anonymous letters, as a 
rule, show nothing except a cowardly and 
disordered mind on the part of their author. You 
say that there were more of these?” 

“Yes,” answered Cramp, “there were three or 
four which arrived before Mr. Crewe was 
persuaded to give them into my hands. The first 
ones which arrived he merely tore up in disgust.” 

“Good for Mr. Crewe!” was the comment 
which formed itself in Besant’s mind, but he did 
not state it. 

The attorney, however, apparently felt that 
Besant was not assigning due importance to this 
phase of the case. 

“At the very least,” he suggested, “these letters 
seem to show that Buiz Serrano has certain 
very disagreeable connections. An unpleasant 
enemy might show a man’s history as clearly as 
an unpleasant friend.” 

Besant smiled slightly. “No man can exactly 
choose his enemies,” he replied, “but I can see 
what you mean. With even a hint of that sort of 
atmosphere I can understand that Serrano would 
appear as a man whom the Crewe family would 
not care to have around.” 

“Exactly!” agreed Cramp. 

Besant smoked his pipe thoughtfully for a 
moment. 

“As you say,” he commented at last, “these 




74 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


letters show that someone is highly determined 
to upset any marriage between Miss Cynthia 
Crewe and Ruiz Serrano—and willing to use the 
most contemptible means to do it.” 

“And succeeding thoroughly,” added the lawyer, 
“if that is the only view you take of it. So long 
as letters like this keep coming in, you can 
understand that Mr. Crewe could only regard any 
association between his daughter and Ruiz 
Serrano with the utmost repugnance.” 

Besant nodded. “That’s what I meant. And 
it’s rather a shame, because they are all stupid 
forgeries.” 

The lawyer looked up in a surprise which was 
almost anger. 

“Forgeries?” he echoed. 

Besant nodded again. “And very poor ones. If 
you don’t believe me, take them down to police 
headquarters in New York and ask the first 
detective you meet. He will tell you the same 
thing.” 

Besant took up the first note he had read and 
pointed out various words with the stem of his 
pipe. “Look at that M,” he said, “in ‘Mr.’ You 
never saw an illiterate person write a sweeping 
double M like that. And you never saw an 
illiterate person begin a letter with a colon. 
Such people don’t even use commas. Although the 
letter is badly written it is perfectly punctuated— 
which is an intellectual impossibility. Nor would 
a person of that type, especially an ignorant 
foreigner, ever begin a letter, ‘Dear Mr. Crewe,’ 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


75 


no matter how it was spelled. Such a person 
would begin it ‘Der Sir’ or more likely ‘Esteemed 
Sir’ or with some other obsequious flourish. The 
simple ‘Dear Mr. Crewe’ is a form used only by 
persons of social experience—unless they should 
happen to know him very well indeed—which 
this person doesn’t pretend to do. Furthermore, 
the writer pretends to be a woman and yet signs 
herself as a man. ‘Amigo’ is masculine.” 

“Do you speak Spanish?” asked Crewe, in sur¬ 
prise. 

“Not really,” answered Besant, “but I know the 
rudiments of Latin.” 

The attorney did, too, for he nodded, in 
unwilling conviction. 

“And look at that word ‘Mexico,’ ” pursued 
Besant. “Any real Spaniard would have spelled 
it with a ‘j’—‘Mejico.’ Anyone who has been as 
far as Texas knows that. Finally, a Spanish or 
Mexican woman, as illiterate as the author of that 
letter pretends to be, would not be able to write 
at all. Writing even one’s name is not a common 
accomplishment among Spaniards or Mexicans of 
that class. On the other hand, those who can write 
even a little, write with remarkable politeness and 
grace. 

“And never ” thought Besant to himself, “would 
such a person have the inspiration to send a 
letter to the Federal Club.” But this thought also 
was one which he kept to himself. 

The lawyer was gazing at the little pile of letters 
with lingering doubt. “And you think, then,” he 




76 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


asked, “that they were all written by the same 
person?” 

“Absolutely,” replied Besant. “In the first place, 
that would be the natural guess. A person who 
would write one such letter would write another. 
But also, read through those letters again, if you 
like. From the most illiterate to the most polished 
of them, you will see the same general methods 
of thought. I can’t explain it exactly, but you 
will almost hear the same person talking. I could 
point it out bit by bit if you wanted to have me, 
but it wouldn’t be worth the time. Of course 
the letters may have been mailed in different 
places, but they were all conceived by the same 
mind.” 

“How about an organized gang?” asked Cramp, 
rather weakly. 

“Rubbish!” retorted Besant. 

The lawyer sat looking down at the letters and 
shaking his head. Slowly he picked them up and 
inclosed them in a rubber band. In his next 
question there seemed to be a distinct new respect 
for Besant’s judgment. 

“Then, in your opinion,” he asked, “what sort 
of person wrote those letters? Have you any 
idea?” 

“Yes,” answered Besant, “I have a fairly distinct 
idea, but it would be utterly futile to state it now. 
I might only have to retract it to-morrow.” 

“But do you think it was a man or a woman?” 
insisted the lawyer. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


77 


Besant laughed curtly. “Really, Mr. Cramp, it 
wouldn’t be fair to ask me that now.” 

Cramp took a cigar from his case and lighted 
it thoughtfully. 

“I suppose,” he said, “that you think me very 
stupid about those letters.” 

“No,” answered Besant. “Such letters are 
repulsive things for anyone to have around. I 
merely think that you accepted them without 
much examination because they fitted in with an 
idea that you already had, fully formed, in your 
mind.” 

“I will confess,” admitted Cramp, “that my one 
instinct was to help the Crewe family get a 
disagreeable atmosphere out of their way. 
Certainly if Ruiz Serrano had never appeared 
those letters would never have come. I wasn’t 
fighting his battles for him. My natural feeling 
was that, if he were got rid of, the letters would 
stop.” 

“And without giving the poor fellow a chance 
to defend himself,” was the thought that came to 
Royal Besant, but this again was a thought that 
he did not express. Instead, he picked up the 
little packet of letters. 

“Do you want me to take these?” he asked. 

“If you want them,” replied the attorney. 

Besant held the letters a moment, before 
slipping them into his pocket. “To my mind,” 
he commented, “these letters point to only one 
genuine danger—that similar letters, or possibly 
even more contemptible ones, may have come to 




78 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Miss Crewe, herself. Do you know whether any 
have?” 

The lawyer flushed. “I have worried about 
that, too, but I can’t say yes or no. If Miss Crewe 
has received any such letters, she is exactly the 
kind of person to keep the fact strictly to herself. 
If she really does care for this Ruiz Serrano and 
should receive any of these accusations of him, it 
would be apt to fan her loyalty rather than other¬ 
wise. Such letters would probably succeed merely 
in making her very unhappy without in the least 
accomplishing their intended purpose.” 

“That’s what I thought, myself,” answered 
Besant. “And is it possible that her present 
disappearance may have something to do with 
some such letter?” 

The attorney looked up, in genuine alarm. “By 
George!” he exclaimed, “I had never thought of 
that!” 

As if in defense of his own negligence he added, 
“You see, all those letters had begun to figure in 
my mind as old evidence. All of them date back 
for several months. There were other things 
of more recent occurrence which had diverted my 
attention. I must have been blind.” 

Besant gave him a reassurance which was 
apparently genuine. 

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about that phase of it,” 
he remarked. “Wait for a day or two and we will 
see what happens. What are the other facts that 
you have?” 

The attorney began at once to produce them. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


79 


but the puerile flaws which Besant had already 
pointed out in the letters seemed, somewhat, to 
have shaken his certainty in his own case. 
Opening his leather folder, he took out a single 
scrap of paper, which he handed to Besant with 
the remark, “This seems to me evidence of quite 
another kind.” 

The attitude in which Besant took this new slip 
of paper was, indeed, quite different from that 
in which he had received the anonymous letters, 
for the first glance showed him that it was the 
same kind of paper on which Miss Cynthia Crewe’s 
own letter had been written—the heavy, gray- 
green stationery of the Crewe estate. It was 
badly crumpled and torn and was only a frag¬ 
ment of a letter, but, whatever it was, it gave 
evidence of being a genuine document. It was 
written in what even Besant could see was 
fluent, idiomatic Spanish, and, as soon as he had 
grasped its general appearance, the attorney 
handed him a typewritten translation. Beginning 
at the fag end of a sentence, the torn fragment 
read: 

. . . otherwise. But I must insist, dear Chita, that for the 
time being you stop these demands for money. I haven’t 
any and I can’t give you any. But let me alone. Let me 
wind up this one little affair and we will all be easy on 
the money score for the rest of our lives. It won’t be 
hard if I can only wait for the proper moment and keep 
up all the appearance of an affluent, successful artist in 
the meantime. These wealthy New Yorkers are really 
very simple-minded sort of people, but also they are as 
suspicious of a stranger as the old mules of Andalusia. 
Easy, easy, I am told, is the word. It will never do for 
me to push my hand too rapidly. Diplomacy and time 
will do the trick, but, once it is done, the rest is easy. 




80 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Also, when the trick is finally turned, I have got to have 
some money saved in order to do things in careless style 
for at least the first month or two. You know the Cas- 
tillian proverb, “Don’t be too eager to grab the first 
plums when you’ve planted a new little plum tree.” 

I sent you two hundred dollars last week, but that must 
be the last until the “grand coup” is finally turned. I 
could, perhaps, pick up a few easy dollars in the old 
way, but the risk of detection is now too great. I have 
an idea that already certain prying eyes are watching me 
for just some such thing. Until then, please be contented. 

Francisco. 

Besant looked up from the letter. “Who is 
Francisco? Serrano?” 

The lawyer nodded. “His full name is Francisco 
Ruiz y Serrano.” 

At Besant’s more respectful contemplation of 
this new letter Cramp’s air of confidence was 
rapidly returning. “You think that that is 
genuine?” he asked. 

“It seems to be,” admitted Besant, soberly. 
“Do you know whether or not that is his hand¬ 
writing?” 

“Without question,” replied Cramp. “We have 
several other samples of it and we are satisfied 
that it is the same.” The lawyer himself could 
now afford to be slightly humorous, and he added, 
lightly, “Although probably you would say that it 
wasn’t.” 

“I wouldn’t say so unless I believed it,” 
answered Besant. He held up the rumpled frag¬ 
ment of the note. “Where did you get this?” 

Again Cramp flushed. “It was found at the 
house over at Legget’s Harbor?” 

“Since Serrano has been there?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


81 


“Within a week.” 

“And by whom was it found—one of the 
servants ?” 

“No, not by one of the servants,” replied Cramp, 
slowly, “but by—by some one connected with the 
household.” 

The answer was not very precise, but for 
reasons of his own Besant was not especially 
eager to push his question. 

“And are these all the facts that you have?” he 
continued. 

Cramp hesitated again. “All the documentary 
facts,” he replied. “As to the others, I don’t know 
whether you will connect them with this case or 
not.” 

“For instance?” suggested Besant. 

The lawyer paused, and then said, quietly. “For 
one thing, Mr. Crewe’s house has been broken 
into—twice during the last month.” 

As Cramp had apparently been afraid that he 
would, Besant did smile slightly. 

“Broken into?” he replied. “You could hardly 
lay that to Ruiz Serrano. If a man is already 
inside a house, why need he break in? Besides, 
if he is after bigger game, no man except a born 
fool would run the chance of being caught in 
petty larceny. I beg your pardon, Mr. Cramp, 
but you don’t seem to remember that, after all, 
Ruiz Serrano is a fairly well-known artist, with at 
least a temporary reputation. From any point of 
view he could not afford to be caught as a sneak 
thief or a second-story worker.” 




82 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Just a minute, please, just a minute,” 
interrupted Cramp. “You have a way of making 
my statements sound more foolish than they 
actually are. I didn’t say that it was a case of 
petty larceny. As a matter of fact, nothing was 
taken whatever. Nor did I mean to say, 
necessarily, that the intruder came in from the 
outside. But some one was heard in the halls 
during the night, and the next morning things 
had been disturbed, not merely in Mr. Crewe’s 
library, but in several of the rooms on the upper 
floor. That episode naturally put everyone more 
or less on guard. About a week later—last Mon¬ 
day, in fact—when one of the gardeners was 
coming home late at night he saw what he thought 
was a shadow moving over the lawn. He called 
and ran after it. He swears there was a figure 
there which ran to the hedge and got away from 
him. 

“Why do you say ‘figure’?” asked Besant, 
bluntly. “Wasn’t it a man?” 

“Well, that seems to be a matter of doubt,” con¬ 
fessed Cramp. “At first the gardener thought that 
it was a man—a very small man or a prowling 
hoy, after the cherries—but when he got to thinking 
it over afterward, he began to believe that it was a 
young woman dressed in man’s clothes, or pos¬ 
sibly knickerbockers.” 

“What made him think that?” 

“Oh, general impression—the way the figure ran. 
And he has an idea that he caught a whiff of scent 
—of perfumery.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


83 


“And how big is Serrano?” 

“Medium size. No, I couldn’t call him small.” 

“And he doesn’t use perfumery?” 

“No,” admitted Cramp, “I’ll give the devil his 
due. That is one thing that I can’t lay against 
him.” 

“And was anything touched in the house, that 
night ?” 

“Not touched, exactly,” answered Cramp, “but 
a window was open.” He nodded toward the frag¬ 
ment of letter which Besant still held in his hand. 
“And it was on the next morning that that bit of 
letter was found—in just about the spot where 
the figure had disappeared through the hedge.” 

The attorney looked at his watch. “Well, Mr. 
Besant, I suppose that if you are going over to 
Legget’s Harbor to-night you really ought to get 
there before they lock up. You will naturally 
want to start in by attracting as little attention as 
possible. Also I am hoping to get an early start, 
myself, for New York, in the morning. Is there 
anything more that you want to ask?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Besant. 

The attorney smiled. “I have already learned 
enough about you,” he remarked, “to know that 
you will never be really satisfied with anything 
until you have seen it with your own eyes.” 

“Isn’t that common sense?” asked Besant. 

“Yes, it is,” replied Cramp, “but I have been 
reminded to-night that sometimes even lawyers 
are apt to forget it.” 




Chapter XII 

C RAMP went out to the little office of the inn 
to telephone for a car, and in the few minutes 
before it arrived he gave Besant a few general 
directions about introducing himself when he 
should arrive at Legget’s Harbor. He also gave 
him his own address and telephone number in 
New York. 

The two men were chatting idly as they waited 
on the steps of the inn, when suddenly Cramp, 
who had turned to glance back at the door, burst 
into a roar of genuine laughter. 

“Which of those,” he demanded, “is your bag?” 
Besant turned and joined him in the laugh, for 
at the top of the steps, standing solemnly side by 
side, a perfect picture of “Dignity and Impudence,” 
were Besant’s huge English kitbag and the minia¬ 
ture little suitcase. 

“The big one,” replied Besant, “is the one I 
intend to use, although I believe that my pajamas 
are in the little one. 

“That must be Tim’s work,” he added. “That 
little affair is a joke that some one once left in the 
car, but Tim never can understand that a joke has 
any time limits.” 

Nevertheless, Besant decided to end the joke 
then and there. It would hardly do, he felt, for 
a mining engineer to arrive at the Crewe estate 
with that absurd toy as a part of his luggage. He 
84 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


85 


rammed the little suitcase into his pocket just as 
the lights of the hired car began to spread up the 
driveway. 

The two men shook hands and from the tonneau 
of the car Besant leaned forward to the driver. 

“I want to go to Mr. Damon Crewe’s place at 
Legget’s Harbor.” 

The driver nodded and slipped in his clutch, 
but, once in the village street, he called back over 
his shoulder. 

“Do you want to go to Mr. Crewe’s house itself,” 
he asked, “or just to the superintendent’s cottage?” 

“To Mr. Crewe’s house itself,” said Besant, and 
the answer seemed to impress the driver, for im¬ 
mediately he straightened in his seat and began 
to drive with great punctilio. 

“This,” his whole attitude seemed to say, “is a 
more important matter than I realized.” 




Chapter XIII 


S the map had indicated, no main highway 



il led to Legget’s Harbor. At the end of the 
village street the car turned sharply to the right, 
passed between half a mile of hay fields and 
meadows and then into woods which closed down 
thickly about it. The trees and bushes, heavily 
leafed, stood out in the lights of the car with an 
artificial, white-greenish appearance that made 
them look like stage scenery. 

At the end of another mile the woods ended 
abruptly in open headlands, and, as if a curtain 
had been drawn aside at one stroke, there came 
not only the sound, but the damp salt breath of 
the ocean. Way off to the left, with no line in the 
darkness dividing the water from the shore, could 
be seen the lights of some boat at anchor and, far 
ahead, straight across the moor, at the end of the 
point, dots of lights twinkled in rows and clusters, 
low on the horizon. The driver turned in his seat. 

“That’s Mr. Crewe’s place, on ahead—all of 
those lights. Don’t it look like a regular city?” 

The road from that point across the moor was 
not long but the deep white sand made it slow 
going. It was fifteen minutes at least before the 
car drew up at a high, grilled gate in a wall. 
Imperiously the driver sounded his horn, and, 
after a pause, a disgruntled man with his coat 


86 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


87 


collar turned up over his nightshirt came out of 
the gate house. 

“Gentleman for the big house,” asserted the 
driver, and without further question the lodge 
keeper opened the gate. 

Inside the high walls the landscape was com¬ 
pletely changed in an instant. The sparse grass 
of the moors gave place to lawns, and the sand 
of the road to hard, well-kept gravel. As they 
neared the house, beds of flowers showed a bril¬ 
liant scarlet in the light of the head lamps. Under 
a lighted stone porte-cochere, the driver jumped 
down with no little manner. 

“Well, here we are, sir!” 

With some hesitation Besant looked up at the 
outer doors of the house, which were of bronze 
grill set before huge sheets of plate glass. The 
driver remained to watch his success with good- 
natured interest. Before Besant could search for a 
bell, the doors were opened and a footman came 
down the steps with an attitude of alert inquiry. 
The first sentence, however, brought a respectful 
welcome. 

“I am Mr. Besant. I believe that I am expected.” 

The footman leaped at once for his bag—now, 
happily, only the big one. 

“Oh yes, sir! You are expected. Have you any 
more luggage, sir?” 

Inside a second pair of glass doors another man, 
obviously the butler, was waiting, and he, at least, 
did not wait for a name. 

“Mr. Besant?” he inquired with a bow. “Mr. 




88 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Crewe is expecting you, but he has retired and 
begs to be excused until morning. Shall I have 
you shown to your rooms or would you care for 
something before you go up?” 

The form of the inquiry made it plain to Besant 
that his rooms were his expected destination, and, 
on following the footman through a high, paneled 
hall and up a great, wide staircase, he found that 
the word “rooms” had been used advisedly. There 
were three of them assigned to him—a sitting room 
with a pleasant fire burning on the hearth, a 
dressing room with its bath, and, much the largest 
of the three, a bedroom with a huge, canopied bed. 

After moving deftly around for a moment— 
lowering the shades, touching up the fire, and un¬ 
strapping the bag, the footman went silently out, 
leaving Besant with the curious feeling of not 
being wholly awake or quite in his senses, for, 
since leaving home, he had given strangely little 
thought as to what the Crewe house would be like 
or as to what would be his actual reception. 

The long, open vista of the three luxurious 
rooms embarrassed him particularly. It gave him 
the feeling of being about to undress in hotel 
parlors, so he closed the doors, put on a bathrobe, 
and then sat down in a big, chintz-covered chair 
in the bedroom to smoke a pipe and pinch himself 
—mentally. He had a constant feeling that some¬ 
thing more ought to happen that night—that some 
one ought to come up and tell him that it was time 
to go to bed—or that it wasn’t. But nothing did 
happen. Outside the house could be heard faintly 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


89 


the swish of the sea, but beyond that—silence. 
The only thing that he could see—of the grounds— 
was a huge copper-beech tree just outside his 
window. From inside the house came the same 
complete silence. Besant decided that there was 
nothing for it but to put out his lights and go 
to bed. 

He must have dreamed, off and on, for, appar¬ 
ently in the middle of the night, he was merely 
half conscious of a knocking which seemed to fit 
vaguely in with his dreams. Growing slowly 
awake and gradually realizing where he was, 
Besant switched on the light at the head of his bed 
and called: “Yes? What is it?” 

The door of the dressing room opened an inch 
or two and the discreet voice of the footman 
answered: 

“Your man has arrived, sir. He says that he 
has a message for you which must be delivered 
at once. Shall I send him in?” 

“Yes, have him come in,” replied Besant, and 
a moment later Tim Hannigan, looking at least 
nine feet tall, was grinning over his bed. 

“One hour and two minutes, Mr. Besant!” he 
announced. “Even counting the deetour. I took 
it easier, coming back.” 

Tim looked around the room in amazement. 
“Holy smoke! Mr. Besant, you’re fixed up in style! 
I think we’re going to enjoy this picnic.” 

Now fully awake, Besant returned his grin. 
“Have they said anything about putting you up 
here?” 




90 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Sure!” answered Tim. “I’m all fixed up. Going 
to sleep over the stables. They’re a fine lot of 
boys downstairs. One of ’em used to be a fighter 
in the British navy. He says he saw Bombardier 
Wells knocked out by Carpentier.” 

“But about the message?” suggested Besant. 

“Oh yes,” recollected Tim. 

Reaching two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, 
he took out a note of the same exact size as that 
which Besant had given him to deliver. On the 
tiny envelope was written: 

Mr. Royal Besant. 

To the great delight of Tim. 

Inside was this message: 

My dear Mr. Besant: 

You are really so clever as to be astounding. Or did 
Tim spill the beans? Concerning Miss Cynthia Crewe, I 
beg to report that she is home already. As to the trous¬ 
seau, have you yet discovered that the little scent bottle 
is really filled with my father’s best Burgundy? 

Selahl and yet demurely, 

Your neighbor, 

Dorothy Sanford. 




Chapter XIV 


T HE news that Miss Cynthia Crewe had re¬ 
turned to her father’s house proved to be 
entirely correct on the following morning, although 
it was not until later in the day that Besant was 
able to verify it in person. His first impression 
on awakening was of the grinning face of Tim 
Hannigan watching him from the foot of the huge 
canopied bed. 

Tim himself was in marvelous spirits. He 
allowed his wondering eye to roam over the 
borders of flounces and ruffles, across the blue, 
silk, embroidered counterpane, then back at the 
sunburnt face of his master. 

“Glory! Mr. Besant,” he announced. “You look 
like the Chinaman’s bride in that crib.” 

“Maybe,” admitted Besant, “but it makes me feel 
likes Moses in the bulrushes.” 

Besant hitched up on his pillows. “Had your 
breakfast?” he asked. 

“A whopper!” said Tim. “And I killed it. 
Bacon and eggs, three cups of coffee, and a card of 
hot rolls as big as first base. The lads downstairs 
asked me wasn’t I going to come up here and help 
you get up. But I says, ‘Shucks! He’s dressed 
himself for thirty years, and if he can’t do it now 
he’d better stay in bed.’ ” 

“What did they say to that?” asked Besant. 

91 




92 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“They said that was true of most people, but 
the trouble was that they didn’t know it. There’s 
one guy down there that’s valet to a gentleman 
here in the house, and I guess he has to do every¬ 
thing for him except scratch his nose. This valet 
he’s a Swede. No, that ain’t it. More like a 
Frenchman. Wait a minute and I’ll tell you.” 

“A Swiss?” suggested Besant. 

“That’s the tribe!” replied Tim. “He’s a Swiss. 
I got to calling him ‘Polly’—that means ‘Polly-voo’ 
—and the girls in the kitchen all laughed, but the 
fellow himself didn’t like it.” 

Besant began to see that, while Tim Hannigan 
was going to be a troublesome problem in the 
Crewe house, he might also be a valuable source 
of information. 

“Tim,” he asked, “who’s staying here now? Do 
you know?” 

“There ain’t nobody here now,” replied Tim, 
“except us and that other gentleman—the one that 
the Switzer is valet to. He’s a violin player. His 
name’s—I dunno. I’ve forgotten it. But the lads 
was telling me that sometimes there’ll be as many 
as thirty to forty people all staying right here in 
the house. I says, ‘You people must be keeping a 
regular hotel!’ ‘I wish we was,’ says one of ’em. 
‘Then they’d have to come across when they paid 
the check. In a private house you can never tell 
whether you’re going to get fifty cents or ten 
dollars.’ ” 

Besant smiled. “Tim,” he said, “I think that 
you had better go out and wash the car.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


93 


Wandering slowly toward the door, Tim began 
to obey the order in his own good fashion, taking 
time, as he went, to study all the pictures on the 
wall. Most of them were French prints of the 
Louis XV epoch and Tim was not quite certain 
whether he ought to pass them by with a gruff 
contempt or wink over them as one man to 
another. The powdered court beauties and sim¬ 
pering gallants, however, were all forgotten when 
he caught sight of a little statue of Hercules in a 
niche in the wall. 

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “That fellow’s got a 
build!” Then he added, in qualified admiration: 
“But I bet he’d be slow on his feet. Those big 
lads usually are. Still, there was Frank Gotch.” 

As usually happened, Tim had got clear to the 
door before he remembered his original errand. 

“Say, Mr. Besant, when do you want your break¬ 
fast? They told me to tell you you could have it 
any time you want.” 

“About twenty minutes,” replied Besant. He 
called Tim back to the bed. “Tim,” he cautioned, 
“it might be just as well if you said as little as 
possible about me downstairs.” 

Tim grinned. “Don’t worry, Mr. Besant. Trust 
me for a fox when it comes to talking. They began 
to ask me about you first thing this morning—who 
you was and what you did for a living. But I says: 
‘Him? He don’t do nothing. Why, he’s got so 
much money,’ I says, ‘that every few years he has 
to move to get out of its way!’ ” 




Chapter XV 

T IM’S report of his own full morning had made 
the day seem farther advanced than it actu¬ 
ally was, for when Besant rolled hastily out of 
bed and looked at his watch, he found that in 
reality it was only twenty minutes past eight. 
Through the deep stone casings of the narrow 
windows the leaves of the copper-beech tree still 
showed the dark, cool freshness of early morning, 
while the close-cropped grass of the lawn still 
sparkled with dew. From somewhere just 
under his windows Besant heard a girl’s voice 
calling to some one inside the house and, moved 
by a natural curiosity, he crossed the room and 
looked out. 

Seen thus in daylight, the lawns and gardens of 
the Crewe estate appeared much smaller than they 
had on the night before. The gate house was only 
some two hundred yards away, but a single glance 
at the far expanse of white, tufted sand showed 
at what immense labor even this little patch of 
greenery had been reclaimed from the moors. In 
contrast, the four or five acres inside the walls had 
an unusually rich and jeweled appearance. As 
for the house itself, Besant saw that it must be 
enormous. Its leaded windows, whispering ivy, 
and rounded stone towers extended as far as his 
very limited angle of view would take him in 
either direction. 


94 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


95 


The sound of the clear voice calling again to 
some one below him made Besant look hastily 
down at the lawn to see a girl of apparently not 
more than eighteen come strolling idly along the 
wall of the house. A hoe and a trowel were tucked 
under one arm, and as she walked she was brush¬ 
ing the dirt of a garden bed, in a rather finicky 
way, from the tips of her fingers. She was a girl 
of a fragile, intermittently solemn type, wistful 
rather than pretty, one of those far-gazing, self- 
absorbed girls who, in moments of rest or preoc¬ 
cupation, have an appearance that is startlingly 
childlike. Her hair, which had once been bobbed, 
was now in the first stages of being put up again, 
giving her even more of a willful, just-escaped- 
from-the-schoolroom appearance. She was dressed 
in a one-piece, elbow-sleeved gingham gown which 
was scarcely more than an apron. 

Her apparent age was the thing most puzzling 
to Royal Besant. Could this, he wondered, be the 
headstrong and rebellious Cynthia Crewe—the 
storm center of this family feud which he had been 
called to untangle? She certainly did not look it, 
for instinctively, in his own mind, Besant had 
formed a picture of a tall, imperious young woman 
—a Gibson type, given to black evening gowns and 
stately manners. 

The girl was moving nonchalantly across the 
lawn when something in one of the flower beds 
attracted her attention. She paused, looked down 
at it for a moment, then, seizing her hoe, she began 
to dig with a vicious determination. From time 




96 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


to time she would stoop to her knees and shake 
out one of the weeds which were, apparently, the 
source of her indignation. It was while in this 
kneeling position that she suddenly seemed to 
become aware that some one was watching her. 
For a moment she remained perfectly still, like 
a young nymph caught by a startling sound, then 
slowly her large, dark eyes were turned straight 
up at Besant’s open window. 

Besant had seen the movement just in time and 
slipped back into the shelter of the room. A 
moment later, from the safe retreat of the shadows 
he rose to his toes and peered cautiously over the 
casing. The girl had turned back to her work, but 
when, after fifteen minutes, Besant returned to 
the outer rooms, shaved, tubbed, and ready for the 
day, the amateur gardener had gone and the lawns 
once more remained silent and deserted. 

A decorous knock, which might have been timed 
to the second, called Besant away from the win¬ 
dows and back to the door of his little sitting room. 
The manservant who had greeted him on his 
arrival entered with a tray and deftly laid out 
his breakfast. Besant stood and watched him 
with a faint amusement, for, on entering, the man 
had said merely, “Good morning, sir,” and as he 
turned to leave he added, simply, “Is there any¬ 
thing more, sir, that you require?” 

There really was nothing that Besant could pos¬ 
sibly require, for the breakfast was perfect, but 
with each new move in this strange situation his 
bewilderment was increasing. Was this sort of 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


97 


thing to go on forever? Was he to remain isolated 
in his rooms, like a pampered prisoner in a tower? 
Or was he expected to sally forth and make him¬ 
self known in this world of strangers ? He stopped 
the man as the latter was leaving. 

“Has Mr. Crewe left any message for me?” 

The man shook his head. “None, sir—that I 
know of. Do you wish me to inquire?” 

“Oh no!” said Besant. “I merely thought that 
he might have.” 

The half hour which he consumed with break¬ 
fast and a meditative pipe still brought no further 
enlightenment. So far as the household was con¬ 
cerned, he might, Besant decided, remain in his 
rooms unnoticed for months and years. The 
members of the Crewe family were either ex¬ 
tremely polite or extremely indifferent to his 
presence. From what he had read in novels and 
stories of English life, this was apparently the 
custom in large country houses—to leave each 
guest to his own devices, but for a stranger like 
himself, who was already none too happy about 
his own position, it was decidedly embarrassing. 
Besant recalled the description that Dorothy San¬ 
ford had given of a visit to Legget’s Harbor— 
“about as pleasant as making a sociable call in 
an icebox.” Already Besant could understand 
what she meant and, for more than one reason, 
now he began to wish that his vivacious little 
neighbor were there to help him. 

At ten o’clock—then half past ten—then eleven 
—had come no further word from anyone, even 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


from Tim. Besant decided to make the plunge 
of his own accord. Still feeling ridiculously like 
a prisoner making an escape, he cautiously opened 
the door and stepped out into the heavily carpeted 
hall. 

The passageways and the stairs were as deserted 
as the lawns. Hearing voices in a room at the foot 
of the stairway, Besant made his way in that 
general direction, but saw only a maid and another 
houseman dusting the room and straightening the 
pictures. The huge front doors, he imagined, 
could not be for ordinary, casual use, so he turned 
in the other direction and wandered past room 
after room, tall, formal, and completely deserted. 

At last he saw a row of open French windows, 
leading apparently to a long stone terrace, pleas¬ 
antly shaded by a striped awning. He stepped out 
and instinctively drew a quick breath of delight, 
for all the warmth, sunshine, and informality of 
the Crewe estate seemed to be concentrated on 
this side of the house. In three directions, almost 
at his feet, was a semicircle of the limitless sea, 
sparkling in myriad glints and flashes, while at 
the foot of the slope half a dozen small boats 
rocked and tossed at their moorings, completing 
with dashes of dancing white the general effect 
of vivacity and animation. Nearer at hand, a 
wealth of soft, golden sunshine bathed the whole 
headland, sifting, even, with placid, diluted 
warmth, through the broad red and white stripes 
of the awning. 

On the terrace itself, moreover, were all the signs 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


99 


of a comfortable, homelike existence. Tropic pal- 
mettoes and dwarf orange trees in green boxes 
broke up the harsh lines of the stonework. Deep 
willow armchairs with red cushions, showing 
signs of a frequent use, were scattered about at 
informal angles. A Boston newspaper of the 
evening before was lying on a wicker table, and 
into a hanging pocket of sweet grass was tucked 
a half-completed piece of embroidery. A silver 
box of cigarettes invited Besant from beside the 
newspaper, and—a thing beyond belief—there was 
also a half-used tin of his own precious “Hermit¬ 
age.” Besant filled his pipe from his own pouch 
and sat down in the comforting sunshine. At last, 
he decided, he had discovered the secret of exist¬ 
ence in the forbidding Crewe mansion. 

At the same time, from the house behind him 
he began to be conscious of new sounds of life. At 
intervals of every few minutes he would hear 
voices, steps through the halls, occasionally the 
slamming of a screen door, interminable comings 
and goings. The first few times, at the sound of 
approaching steps, he would look up over his 
shoulder, ready to rise, but still no one intruded on 
his solitude. He became accustomed to it, in the 
end; indeed, began rather to like it. 

“For, after all,” he mused, “here I am. Now 
what are they going to do about it?” 




Chapter XVI 

B ESANT had been on the terrace for fifteen or 
twenty minutes before he slowly realized that 
he, himself, was not actually the only human being 
in sight. A hundred yards away, to the right, a 
short pier extended over the water, at its end a 
small, round pavilion, like a summerhouse, shel¬ 
tered on two sides by green rattan awmings. It 
was only when a woman’s arm appeared, raising 
one of the awnings, that Besant realized that two 
persons were sitting out there in apparent con¬ 
ference—the woman who had rolled up the awning 
and a slouched old gentleman in a wheel-chair, 
muffled down in a steamer rug and gazing, un¬ 
moving, out at the sea. 

This latter figure, it was not hard to guess, must 
be that of the head of the house, Damon Crewe, 
and it was natural that Besant’s attention should 
now be centered upon him. Having neatly fast¬ 
ened the ropes of the awning around a cleat, the 
woman resumed her seat beside her companion 
and, as it looked from a distance, began to read 
aloud, but, as he watched, Besant slowly grasped 
the fact that she was taking notes from dictation 
which the old gentleman was giving without once 
glancing in her direction or moving his eyes from 
the distant horizon. 

The taking of notes a hundred yards away was 
not an exciting pastime for an onlooker, and 
100 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


101 


Besant’s eyes had wandered away to the nearer 
points of the shore, when again, for at least the 
fifth or sixth time, he heard padding steps in the 
hallways of the house and a sudden cheery voice 
broke over his shoulder. 

“Hello-hello-hello!” exclaimed the voice. “Who’s 
smoking my tobacco?” 

Besant looked up as a round and beaming young 
man in a brown tweed coat with white-flannel 
trousers and spotless white shoes came shooting 
through the screen door and out on the terrace. 
The newcomer was inordinately blond and inor¬ 
dinately jovial, even to a little whitish mustache, 
drawn out to two pin points. In his careless sport 
clothes and with his bouncing, good-natured man¬ 
ners he might have been a young Swedish prince 
off on a vacation. 

The two men caught a full sight of each other 
at exactly the same moment and both drew back 
in some confusion. The newcomer was the first 
to apologize. 

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed. “I had no 
idea who it was. I merely smelled the tobacco 
clear back in the halls and wondered who on earth 
could have sense enough to smoke it.” As if with 
an afterthought he held out his hand. “My name 
is Ruiz Serrano.” 

“And mine is Besant.” 

With a quick, sharp glance of mutual appraisal, 
the two men shook hands. The newcomer’s con¬ 
fusion had completely vanished, but Besant re¬ 
mained more bewildered than ever. If, mentally. 




102 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


he had come prepared with a hundred separate 
images of the man whom he was employed to 
study, not one of them would have resembled, in 
the least detail, the figure before him. He tried to 
cover his amazement with his next sentence. 

“Of course I have heard of you-” he began. 

But the other man broke in before he could finish. 

“I know what you are thinking,” he laughed. 
“You never saw a white-headed Spaniard. That’s 
what everyone always says. As a matter of fact, 
there really are millions of them. They tell me 
that it’s the Celtic strain. But I will admit that 1 
am the worst in existence. I should have been 
a Norwegian. Then people wouldn’t hoot every 
time they see me.” 

It was only as he continued to talk that a marked 
foreign intonation began to creep into his English 
speech, but his fluency remained perfect. Indeed, 
as he rushed on and on he seemed to acquire a 
friendly deluge of words that made it difficult to 
keep up with him. Besant, for his part, had to 
wait for some time before he could get in his own 
intended apology. 

“Please let me explain,” he suggested, “that I 
was not really stealing your tobacco.” 

Serrano glanced toward the little tin box on 
the table. “But why not?” he said. “You’re per¬ 
fectly welcome to it.” 

Besant took out his own crowded pouch and at 
last the other man seemed to grasp his real 
meaning. 

“Oh, that’s it!” he exclaimed. “You carry 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


103 


‘Hermitage,’ too ? That’s very remarkable. I sup¬ 
posed that I was the only man in the world who 
had ever discovered it. We must form a club. 
Isn’t it wonderful? Did you ever smoke ‘Cobden 
Mixture’? I used it for years and thought it 
couldn’t he beaten. But ‘Hermitage’ does it. Am I 
right? Yes? No? You agree? There’s nothing 
can touch it.” 

But already his enthusiasm was growing forced 
and his alert, nervous gaze had begun to wander 
over the headland. 

“I was just looking for Cynthia—for Miss 
Crewe,” he explained. “You haven’t seen her any¬ 
where, have you?” 

“I am sorry,” answered Besant. “I am not even 
sure that I know her by sight. I only arrived 
last evening.” 

Serrano turned to him with a beaming grin, once 
more full of friendly interest. 

“And you haven’t yet seen any of the family?” 
he supplied. “Not even a mouse. I know how 
it is. Isn’t this a curious house? I like it. Great. 
They never bother you. Never will. Restful. It’s 
that. But it isn’t exactly one’s idea of a beehive.” 

Besant nodded out toward the little pavilion at 
the end of the pier. “That isn’t Miss Crewe out 
there, is it?” 

Serrano looked quickly out at the pier with a 
genuine eagerness that was not lost on Besant, 
but the eagerness turned at once to a clear 
disappointment. 

“Oh, good Heavens, no!” he replied. “That’s 




104 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Miss Dessler, the secretary. A nice woman, but— 
so exact. Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Besant, but I must 
tear on and find the lost household. Take all of 
that tobacco you want. I’ve tons and tons of it 
up in my room.” 

With the same bouncing, eager air with which 
he had come through the screen door, the young 
musician leaped off the steps of the terrace and 
disappeared around an angle of the house. Besant 
sat watching his retreating figure with a puzzled 
expression. 

“About that young man,” he mused to himself, 
“only one thing is certain. He may be all right 
and he may be all wrong, but, whichever he is, 
it will take Tim Hannigan a long time to like him.” 




Chapter XVII 

I T would seem, indeed, as if the bouncing advent 
of Serrano had started more than one thing in 
motion, for when Besant looked back at the little 
pavilion the conference was apparently at an end. 
The secretary had risen to her feet and now came 
slowly down the pier, her notebook and pencil still 
in her hand. As she crossed a small stretch of 
turf and began to climb the steps of the terrace, 
Besant was able to recognize that if Serrano’s 
description of her had been a little unkind, it was 
still very accurate. Miss Dessler, who might have 
been any age between thirty-five and fifty, was 
one of those women who seem determined to hold 
the whole world at bay by a sheer wall of tight- 
lipped refinement. 

“Mr. Besant,” she asked, coldly. Without wait¬ 
ing for even a nod in reply, she added, “Mr. Crewe 
will see you now,” and passed abruptly into the 
house. 

Besant looked at her rigid back with something 
almost a gasp. It was not a pleasant introduction 
for the interview which was ahead, and as he 
walked out on the echoing boards of the pier his 
whole attitude unconsciously stiffened. For a 
moment, in fact, it really did seem as if the secre¬ 
tary’s manner were to reflect completely that of 
her employer, for, as Besant reached the little 
pavilion and paused, the old gentleman in the 
105 




106 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


wheel-chair did not even look over his shoulder. 
His eyes were still fixed out at sea where a sailing 
vessel with a curious barkentine rig was painfully 
creeping along the horizon. 

“Will you kindly tell me,” he began, in a harsh, 
carping voice, “what sense there can be in rigging 
a ship like that? If they are going to carry a crew 
large enough for a square-rig, why do they com¬ 
promise with a schooner?” 

“I am sure I can’t tell you, sir,” answered Besant, 
and at the stiff note in his voice the older man 
looked around sharply. 

“Oh!” he grunted. “I thought it was one of the 
men.” 

Even now, however, he seemed to have forgotten 
completely for whom he had sent. He looked 
at Besant with gray eyes in which there was 
neither interest nor recognition until Besant him¬ 
self felt called on to prompt him. 

“My name is Besant,” he prompted. “I came 
here on the suggestion of Mr. Cramp.” 

For a moment longer the gray eyes stared with 
indifference, then suddenly changed into an ex¬ 
pression of complete recollection. 

“Oh yes, yes, Mr. Besant!” replied the banker. 
“I had forgotten entirely. Sit down. Sit down.” 

With a faint hesitation Besant obeyed the com¬ 
mand, but in spite of himself he felt his own hurt 
pride vanishing into a curious feeling of sympathy. 
It sometimes happens like that, in a way that 
upsets all reason. Two natures meet with a clash 
which is almost a passage of arms, then, with 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


107 


hardly another word spoken, settle immediately 
into complete understanding. 

Besant’s first impression was that at last he had 
met a man who looked exactly like his precon¬ 
ceived image. Call the old financier “Colonel” 
Crewe, and the picture would need no further 
elaboration. His motionless limbs and his shrunken 
attitude explained his malady, but Besant had not 
heard him speak two sentences before he knew 
that what he had taken for signs of senile decay 
were merely the traits of a deep and wearied 
abstraction. Here was a man who lived in a world 
entirely apart, completely in his own intellect. 
How shrewdly, in return, he himself had been 
studied and placed on his peg, Besant was only to 
realize after some minutes. 

The banker began to fumble with the wheels of 
his chair and Besant sprang up to help him. 

“Just turn it a little—like that,” said his host. 
“I wanted to get my eyes out of the sunlight.” 

Whether or not that were his real intention, the 
slight change in position brought him half facing 
his guest and started the conversation on an en¬ 
tirely new level. The older man looked across at 
Besant and his dull, gray eyes began to lose their 
absent expression. 

“So Mr. Cramp sent you?” he began. But before 
Besant could make any answer his host ended his 
words with a curt explosion, “What a fool Arthur 
Cramp is!” 

The sentence expressed so exactly Besant’s own 
conclusions that he almost burst into a roar of 




108 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


laughter. He knew that his complete agreement 
was not lost on old Damon Crewe, but he did feel 
obliged to put up a certain polite deprecation. 

“I have really not known Mr. Crafnp very long,” 
he offered. 

His host nodded bluntly to show his acceptance 
of the formal defense, but it was apparently not 
his habit to let anything interrupt his own train 
of thought. 

“Just what did Cramp tell you?” he inquired. 
But immediately he seemed to recognize the un¬ 
fairness of his own question. He added an inter¬ 
jection, “I suppose, among other things, he gave 
you to understand that my whole affairs are now 
entirely in his hands?” 

Besant smiled openly. “Well, he did give me 
the impression that he was carrying a pretty heavy 
load.” 

The banker looked back at the sea and his 
shoulders gave a gruff, humorous hump. “Well, 
let him think so,” he commented. “It doesn’t do 
any harm and it keeps him contented. Arthur 
Cramp,” he went on to explain in his tired, heavy 
monotone, “Arthur Cramp is one of the busy little 
hens of the legal profession. Such men do nine- 
tenths of the work in our world. In fact, they are 
so unceasingly active that if only one out of ten 
of the things they do amounts to anything, they 
still get through an amazing amount. We have 
to have them. They play their part. No one else 
would ever work so long or be so punctilious. In 
short, if I wanted to find out the name of every 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


109 


stockholder of the Erie Railroad, I would get 
Arthur Cramp to do it for me. But if I had been 
arrested for arson, I think I should go to some 
other attorney.” 

“Perhaps I had better explain,” interrupted 
Besant, “that I had no wish at all to go into this 
matter in the first place. I refused to take a cent 
for it and would be only too eager to drop it right 
now.” 

The banker stopped him by lifting his hand 
three inches from the wheel of his chair. “Oh, 
don’t get angry, young man! I know all about you 
and I’m glad to have you. I saw Mr. Shea’s letter 
from the Record office and I have made other in¬ 
quiries. Mr. Shea is one of the shrewdest men in 
this universe and his recommendation is quite 
sufficient.” 

Although the old banker’s mind was apparently 
as active as ever, yet there could still be no doubt 
about his physical malady. Even with these few 
sentences, he seemed to be fighting a weariness 
which again had begun to settle upon him. As if, 
indeed, recognizing the shortness of time, he 
plunged at once to the heart of the subject. 

. “Arthur Cramp showed you some letters?” he 
demanded. 

Besant nodded. “Yes.” 

“And he tells me that you believe them all 
fakes.” 

“I do.” 

“But why should anyone go to all the trouble 
of writing such vicious nonsense?” 




110 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant paused for a moment before he replied. 
“A very small part of the trouble in the world,” 
he answered at last, “is caused by persons who are 
genuine criminals. Most of it is caused by persons 
who merely lack strength in their hearts—or minds 
—by persons who are jealous, or foolish, or 
embittered.” 

The banker looked at him very sharply. “Have 
you,” he asked, “any suspicion as to who might 
have written those letters?” 

His manner more than his wording gave Royal 
Besant his real cue. He answered with some hesi¬ 
tation: “In a general way. Haven’t you?” 

The older man received the question without 
surprise or offense. He looked away at the sea, 
rather wearily. “For the moment,” he said, “I 
don’t think we had better go into that.” 

He turned brusquely. “Have you seen this man 
Ruiz Serrano?” 

“I saw him for the first time,” said Besant, 
“about ten minutes ago.” 

“And what do you think of him?” 

Again Besant paused thoughtfully before he 
replied. “On general appearance,” he commented, 
slowly, “I should hardly say that he was a crook.” 

The banker hitched his shoulders in curt im¬ 
patience. “A crook, no!” he snorted. “You don’t 
think, do you, that I would have a man under my 
roof for ten minutes if I had any real idea that he 
was a crook? But is he an imbecile? That’s what 
I want to know. Is he as much of an ass as he 
looks?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


111 


Besant laughed outright. “In reality,” he an¬ 
swered, “of course he can’t be. But I know what 
you mean. To the average person he probably 
would appear just what you have called him.” 

“But you haven’t told me yet,” insisted his host, 
“what you actually think of him. That’s what I 
asked you.” 

“To be perfectly frank,” said Besant, “I like 
him—in spite of myself—or, rather, in spite of 
himself.” 

To his utter amazement, the gruff old banker 
received his remark with a second humorous 
grunt. “And so you like him, eh?” he chuckled. 
“You think he’s a pretty good fellow in spite of 
himself? Well, to tell the plain truth, so do I. 
And now that we understand each other, let’s get 
down to business.” 




Chapter XVIII 

T HE old gentleman hitched his wheel-chair so 
that now he was completely facing Besant. 
“Young man,” he said, “do you smoke?” 
“Indeed I do!” answered Besant. 

“All right, then,” said his host. “Turn around 
and you’ll find an electric bell under that rail. 
Push it twice and I’ll have some one bring you a 
cigar.” 

“If you don’t mind,” suggested Besant, “I’d much 
rather smoke my pipe. It will not be necessary 
to get a cigar.” 

“Yes, hang it! but I want one for myself!” re¬ 
torted the banker. “I’m not supposed to smoke at 
all, but you’re the first person of common sense 
that I’ve seen in three days, and I’m going to 
enjoy it.” 

Besant had already reached the rail and was 
fumbling for the push button when the old gen¬ 
tleman stopped him. “Wait a minute,” he ordered, 
sharply. “In case you don’t want a cigar yourself, 
* ring it three times. That will bring some member 
of the family. No, wait a minute,” he interrupted 
again. “Don’t ring it at all. Just stand there and 
wave your hand at the terrace.” 

In natural perplexity, Besant looked up at the 
terrace and saw the girl whom he had watched 
from his windows that morning. In rather timid 
obedience to his orders he half raised his hand, but 
112 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


113 


the girl, who was looking down at the wicker table, 
moved around so that her back was toward him. 

“Whistle!” commanded his inexorable host; but 
before Besant’s dry, embarrassed lips could even 
attempt to comply, the girl turned again and 
looked squarely at the pavilion. Feeling quite like 
a schoolboy who was being hazed in some ridicu¬ 
lous way, Besant raised his arm in a stiff and 
angular fashion. He beckoned. 

For a moment, apparently, the girl could not 
believe her own eyes. In a sort of stiff, uncom¬ 
prehending anger she remained stockstill, staring 
out at the pier. Then understanding, no doubt, 
the true situation, she started toward the pavilion 
with slow and reluctant steps. 

The banker made no greeting until she was 
standing at the side of his chair. 

“Connie,” he said, “this is Mr. Besant. And this 
is my younger daughter, Cornelia.” 

The girl looked up at Besant and met his gaze 
squarely with large, dark, unmoving eyes—and 
never in his life had Besant been so completely 
put in his place with a single look. Her acknowl¬ 
edgment of the introduction the girl confined to 
the faintest of bows, a slow, cold nod so deliberate 
and so indifferent that even Besant felt guilty for 
being himself. In a calm and straightforward way 
the girl was telling him that he played no part in 
her life and must never expect to. Quite so, 
thought Besant. But why make it so brutally 
obvious? What had he done? 

The girl had not moved an inch from the side 




114 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


of the wheel-chair and her father put his hand 
over hers. 

“Connie,” he said, “I’m smuggling. Mr. Besant 
has made me want to smoke. Go up to the closet 
of my dressing room—on the top shelf—and get 
me one of those thin, brown cigars without any 
bands. The ones that look like wood licorice.” 

The girl looked down at him with an expression 
not entirely different from that which she had 
given Besant. 

“Father,” she said, unsmiling, “you really ought 
not to. You know what the doctor said.” 

“Yes, I know,” answered Damon Crewe, “but 
I’m going to do it just the same. Now run along, 
and if your mother sees you, the cigar is for Mr. 
Besant.” 

“Then why not bring the whole box ?” The girl’s 
slow, indifferent look had remained completely 
unchanged. 

“All right. Bring the whole box.” 

In a silence expressive as a shrug the girl turned 
and walked up the pier. Her father waited until 
she was out of hearing, then turned to Besant. 

“Now there, Mr. Besant, is a genuine problem 
and one that you can thank your lucky stars that 
you are not called on to solve. That child and her 
future are agony to me. You mustn’t mind if she 
was rude to you. It probably means that she likes 
you very much indeed. She treats us all exactly 
the same. That girl has got every one of my own 
private faults. But what good are they going to 
do her? She can’t go on the stock exchange.” 




Chapter XIX 

B EFORE Besant could make any reply—pos¬ 
sibly, indeed, to keep him from making any 
—the old gentleman briskly took up the thread of 
their previous conversation. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “I’m troubled. I want to 
get a fresh viewpoint. That’s why you’re here. 
The men like Arthur Cramp are no use. And all 
my own friends are prejudiced, one way or the 
other. I can’t leave my wheel-chair. When I 
want to talk with the world I have to send out my 
wires and bring the world in to me. How long 
have you known J. N. Sanford?” 

Besant looked up in utter bewilderment. “I 
don’t know him at all.” 

His host was not in the least disturbed. “He 
says he knows you.” 

“He is my neighbor,” answered Besant. “Pos¬ 
sibly that was what he meant.” 

His host nodded curtly. “Yes, possibly that was 
what he did say.” 

“And I have met his daughter,” suggested 
Besant—“just once.” 

The banker gave way again to one of his humor¬ 
ous grunts. “There’s another young lady,” he said, 
“who ought to be spanked. At any rate,” resumed 
the older man, “J. N. Sanford was here over the 
week end and, when I learned that Arthur 
Cramp’s young superdetective lived in Manhasset, I 
115 




116 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


asked him about you. Put your hand in my inside 
pocket—on the right-hand side.” 

More bewildered than ever, Besant did as he was 
ordered and drew out a long clipping from a 
newspaper. At the sight of it he blushed, and the 
banker smiled with amusement. 

“That yours?” he demanded. “Didn’t you write 
that?” 

Besant nodded, for the clipping was his sole 
literary effort since leaving the Record office. It 
was a contribution to the Manhasset newspaper 
written during the heat of a taxation fight between 
the large summer property owners and the local 
town authorities. In tone it was highly humorous, 
but in substance it was deadly truth. It gave a 
whole column of blunt financial facts with the light¬ 
ning strokes of a rapier wit. It was entitled “How 
to Extinguish the Bevenue of a Given Village.” 

Damon Crewe held out his stiff, rather trembling 
fingers and Besant gave back the clipping. 

“Sanford,” commented the banker, “has been 
carrying that piece of yours in his pocketbook for 
months. He takes it out and reads it every time 
he feels blue. He showed it to me the moment I 
mentioned your name. And when I read it, my¬ 
self, I sent right for Cramp. I told him: ‘All right. 
Bring on your young man from Manhasset.’ ” 

For a moment the old financier turned his head 
again toward the sea f Once or twice in the silence 
he lifted his hands from the wheels of his chair 
and let them drop. As he began to speak again, 
his tone had a slow, monotonous accent in which 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


117 


he might have been laying the state of a mortgage 
loan before a meeting of bank directors. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “my daughter Cynthia 
wants to marry a young musician. He is a man 
about whom I know nothing. If it were Connie, 
I would say, ‘Go ahead, and Heaven help the young 
musician.’ But Cynthia is a different proposition. 
Money doesn’t enter into it. I can support a son- 
in-law if it comes to that. But character does. My 
oldest daughter is a girl for whom the whole face 
of life could be changed by a single week with a 
brute—or a hypocrite—or a weakling—or a cad. 

“It was about two years ago,” continued Damon 
Crewe, “that this young man, Ruiz Serrano, began 
to come to our house—in New York. He was not 
the first of his kind. In fact, my wife has a peri¬ 
odical weakness for celebrities—artists, musicians, 
and lions of all kinds. It was a good many months 
before I really grasped the fact that my daughter 
and this young Serrano were really intending to 
marry each other.” 

The old banker paused for a moment thought¬ 
fully, and then went on in his same monotonous 
tone. 

“About my own position in this affair there have 
been a good many false reports. It has been said 
that I was bitterly opposed to the whole romance— 
that I was determined to stop it at any cost. That 
is not wholly true. I was merely cautious. I 
fought the thing off to see if it would not die of 
its own accord. If I had really wanted to stop it, 
don’t you suppose that I could have found some 




118 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


way to do it? No matter what the cost to my 
daughter or anyone else? But understand, Mr. 
Besant, that while I am determined that my daugh¬ 
ter shall not be led into a disastrous marriage, 
yet at the same time I am not going to kill the one 
real love of her life. She doesn’t know that. I 
couldn’t afford to let her know it just yet. She is 
better off with the brakes apparently on from all 
sides. Nevertheless, it is true. If this Serrano is 
the real thing, she can marry him, and God bless 
her. No one else has ever meant so much to her 
and probably no one else ever will.” 

Again the banker was obliged to stop for a 
moment, but in spite of his physical weakness a 
keener and liver tone had begun to creep into 
his voice. 

“So far, so good,” he resumed. “So long as it 
was merely a question between myself and two 
other persons, the matter seemed to be settling 
itself. It must, I suppose, have become obvious 
that I was making up my mind to consent and 
some one apparently was determined not to have 
it end that way. For, all at once, it would seem as 
if an organized cabal had sprung up against Buiz 
Serrano—a determination to make a disagreeable 
business of the whole affair. Arthur Cramp has 
told you the main features. You yourself have 
seen the letters.” 

Besant nodded and the old gentleman continued 
with gathering disgust. 

“It isn’t just the letters,” he almost exploded. 
“To those I didn’t attach any more importance 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


119 


than you do. But it’s other things. Things that 
I can’t even explain to myself. For six months 
or more there has been an air of distrust, of appre¬ 
hension, all through my household. It may be 
merely my nerves. One little thing after another 
has just worn me down. I begin to distrust my 
own judgments. These endless, insidious things 
are beginning to get me. I begin to waver. I 
think to myself, ‘No smoke without fire.’ ” 

Again the old gentleman paused. Two or three 
times he raised, then dropped, his hands as if 
punctuating his own thoughts. 

“I am a sick man, Besant,” he exclaimed. “I 
can’t leave this chair. A hideous crime could be 
committed out there on the beach ten yards before 
me and I couldn’t raise a finger to stop it. I 
couldn’t even get up and ring the bell. You have 
no idea what a hopeless feeling that gives you. 
Will power alone is not enough to fight it down. 
I need a man with health and youth and a keen, 
clear humor to lean on—to help me to see this 
thing with my old point of view.” 

There was only one thing for Besant to say as 
he sat looking down, self-consciously, at the rail 
before him. “I am sure, sir, that I appreciate your 
confidence in me.” 

But the banker wished none of that sort of 
thanks. “Oh yes, yes!” was all he replied. 

A silence, a potent, uncomfortable silence, fell 
for a moment over the little pavilion. Slowly 
Besant looked up at the older man. 

“Mr. Crewe,” he said, “there is one question that 




120 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


I naturally hesitate to ask, but which I really must 
ask if you want my actual judgment.” 

The banker looked at him sharply for a moment, 
studied his eyes, and then said: “Go ahead. I 
think I know what it is. But go on.” 

Even with this permission, Besant found it diffi¬ 
cult, but with some effort he forced himself into 
his question. “How,” he said, —“how does Miss 
Cynthia’s mother look on this matter?” 

For answer Damon Crewe looked wearily over 
the water, then slowly turned back. “Mr. Besant,” 
he replied, “you are a very courageous young man 
to ask me that question, but I will give you an 
honest answer. Thirty years ago, Mr. Besant, I 
was married. I married a beautiful woman-” 

The banker paused, but his pause was not hesi¬ 
tation. It was a deliberate stop. “Does that 
answer your question?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Besant, “I think that it does.” 





Chapter XX 

E CHOING steps, coming down the pier, would 
have put an end to this line of conversation 
even if there had been any desire on the part of 
either man to continue it. With the same curt 
air Cornelia, the younger daughter, marched into 
the little pavilion and without a word laid down 
in her father’s lap a large box of cigars. With 
his slow-moving, trembling hand, the old gentle¬ 
man opened the cover and then looked up in 
surprise. And well he might, for the cigars were 
huge, smooth, heavy, and as black as ink. They 
were cigars that, on the face of them, would have 
staggered a Cuban horse jockey. 

“Good gracious, Connie!” demanded Damon 
Crewe. “What are these? I told you to bring me 
one of those health cigars that Mr. Sanford 
gave me.” 

“I know you did,” answered the girl, “but I 
knew at the same time that these were what you 
really wanted. I thought that if you were going 
to break your rules at all, you might as well do it 
for something that you really enjoyed.” 

Her father answered with one of his grunting 
chuckles. “If you’re going to sin, eh, sin for some¬ 
thing worth while? Excellent logic, Connie, but 
the courts don’t understand it. As it happens, I 
no longer want to smoke. But I will keep these 
cigars here now as a bait for Mr. Besant. I find 
121 




122 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


that he will make an excellent alibi for all my 
relapses.” 

Hitherto the girl had taken no more notice of 
Royal Besant than if he had been a plank in the 
floor or a pebble on the sand, but now she included 
him in a broad, impersonal statement, as she 
might have included an incompetent child or an 
upper servant. 

“If Mr. Besant is going to have any lunch,” she 
suggested, “he had better come now. They are 
just sitting down.” 

Her father nodded and waved his hand in a 
friendly way. “Go ahead, Besant,” he commanded. 
“Don’t mind me. I just peck a bit when they 
bring me a tray. Go along with Connie. She’ll 
show you the way.” 

The girl had already turned, when her father 
called her back with a curious gentleness and 
again put his hand over hers. 

“Connie,” he suggested, “I don’t suppose there 
is any use in wishing that sometimes you could 
see your way clear to showing a little better 
manners ?” 

Into the girl’s cold, yet oddly childlike eyes came 
a faint flicker of amusement. “I’m sorry,” she 
said. “I am distrait this morning. I am sure that 
Mr. Besant doesn’t mind.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Besant,” answered her 
father. “I was thinking of you. Mr. Besant is a 
far cleverer young man than you have any idea. 
If you carry on this way, you are going to wake 
up some day and find that he is laughing at you 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


123 


in his sleeve. And you know that that is the one 
thing that can really cut you—so it hurts.” 

The girl’s eyes dropped under long lashes. “I 
am sorry,” she repeated, quietly, but if her father’s 
admonition had had any effect she gave no sign 
of it as she walked up the pier with Besant, keep¬ 
ing rigidly just half a pace ahead of him and 
looking neither to right nor left. 

With a cold, impersonal courtesy which was 
almost worse than actual hostility, she led the way 
across the terrace, through a long, dark hallway, 
and into a bright little room at the other side of 
the house. It was a built-out room of which three 
sides were composed of open glasswork and, in 
the clear, almost artificial light which this gave, 
three persons were seated at luncheon. At the 
far side of the round, glistening table showed the 
beaming face and brown tweed coat of Ruiz Ser¬ 
rano, while of the other two persons there could 
no longer be any doubt. One of them must be 
the mother and the other, at last, was—Cynthia 
Crewe. 




Chapter XXI 

I F the situation was embarrassing for Besant as 
* he stood, slightly hesitating, in the doorway, it 
was apparently no less so for the persons in the 
room. Instantly all conversation stopped and three 
pairs of eyes looked up. Serrano was the first to 
break the silence. He leaped to his feet with a 
jovial exclamation. 

“Ah! Mr. Besant!” he called. “We’d begun to 
wonder what had become of you. Lost in the 
passageways. That was my theory. I was, my¬ 
self, the first time I came here. You remember, 
Mrs. Crewe? All dressed for dinner, that night? 
Started out bravely from my rooms. My fiddle 
under my arm, like a wandering minstrel. Then 
lost. Absolutely lost. Right in the hallways. You 
remember you had to send out men with lanterns 
and ropes. I was nearly starving before they 
found me and carried me in. I’d keep dogs if I 
were you. Save endless lives. Dogs can find 
people like a shot!” 

His hostess looked up from the table. “Fran¬ 
cisco !” she commanded. “Don’t be absurd.” 

“But I was , Besant,” insisted Serrano. “I swear 
I was. Lost for an hour at the very least. When 
they found me I was sobbing like a child.” 

From behind Besant’s shoulder came a calm, 
cool voice. 

“Does it occur to any of you,” asked Connie, • 
124 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


125 


“that Mr. Besant does not know a soul here? 
Mother, this is Mr. Besant.” 

The hostess half turned at the table and nodded 
in a fashion that was friendly enough—a stout, 
rather silly woman with a vague wealth of fine 
yellow hair. Fat wrists, jeweled fingers, rather 
old-fashioned costume, and figure very pro¬ 
nounced—everything about her was dowager¬ 
like except her face, and that, still faintly pretty 
and faintly discontented, showed a mind which, 
in some far distant day, had been locked up and 
sealed at the age of nineteen. 

With this introduction, the younger daughter 
apparently felt that her obligations had been ful¬ 
filled, but immediately the older sister took up her 
duties. She rose hospitably and came toward 
Besant, holding out her hand. 

“How do you do, Mr. Besant?” 

Except Serrano’s it was the first friendly hand 
which had been extended to him since his arrival, 
and a recognition of it must have showed in 
Besant’s eyes, for as they met Cynthia Crewe’s 
she flushed faintly and her own eyes dropped. 
Her slight confusion gave Besant an instant in 
which to take in a picture of her, completely sup¬ 
planting those which he had already formed in 
his imagination. 

Slightly taller, slightly darker, and slightly 
simpler in outline, Cynthia Crewe was, in general 
appearance, not unlike her sister, but with none 
of her sister’s tartness and, possibly, with less of 
her strength of mind. Where the younger girl’s 




126 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


eyes were those of a hoyden, a rebel, the older 
sister’s were gentle and kind. 

A manservant appeared from somewhere and 
held a chair for Besant. Connie had already 
slumped into hers, near the door, with the attitude 
of a sulky child called in from its tricycle and 
forced to gulp down its bread and milk. Until 
almost the end of the meal she did not say another 
word. Her momentary flash of good nature was 
apparently gone. Just once her mother looked 
toward her. 

“Connie!” she ordered. “Please don’t draw pic¬ 
tures with that stick of celery. It makes me 
nervous.” 

Without a word the girl tossed the celery on 
the plate before her and the talk of the others 
went on as before. 

For his own part, Besant did not find the 
luncheon as great an ordeal as he would have 
supposed. Whatever undercurrents of distrust 
may have lain beneath the peace of their table, 
the members of the Crewe family had the happy 
gift of commonplace talk. Serrano’s terrific flow 
of banter seemed to die down after its first rush 
and this was somewhat to Besant’s relief. Indeed, 
he began to wonder whether the young musician 
did not deliberately adopt this rather clownish 
method to get over awkward moments in a house 
where he must have been almost constantly ill 
at ease. 

It was not until almost the end of the meal that 
Besant himself was forced into the prominence 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


127 


which he had hoped to escape. There had been 
some talk of a sailing trip in the afternoon, and 
with an implication that might or might not have 
been intended, the hostess turned. 

“I suppose, Mr. Besant,” she said, “that you will 
be occupied with my husband most of your time?” 

With a glance that was absolutely malicious, 
Connie looked up from her side of the table and 
spoke her first word. “I hope,” she said, “that 
you won’t tire poor father too much with facts 
and figures.” Very demurely she looked down at 
her plate and added, for all the world, “Mr. Besant 
is a mining engineer.” 

The deliberate cut was too obvious to be mis¬ 
taken, but instantly from the other side of the 
table Besant had a friend in need. 

“And you, young lady,” exclaimed Serrano, 
“what do you know about a mining engineer?” 

“Only one thing,” answered Connie, significantly. 
“A mining engineer is a man who is trained to 
dig very deep.” 

“She bites!” exclaimed Serrano. “But now, 
thank Heaven, there are two of us to share her 
stings.” 




Chapter XXII 

T HE luncheon ended as informally as it had 
begun, and the afternoon dragged on in the 
same desultory way. Connie disappeared .first of 
all, and then Cynthia and Serrano—presumably 
on their boating expedition. Mrs. Crewe an¬ 
nounced that she was about to take “my nap” with 
all the pomp of a woman who believes that her 
most intimate affairs are of supreme importance 
to all the world. Besant was left to himself, not 
even his host or the secretary making any calls 
on his time. Even Tim could not be located when 
his master began to wonder what new form of 
mischief he might have discovered. On inquiry 
through the butler, the chauffeur, and some of the 
stablemen, Besant found that Tim had gone to 
Gaylordsville, ostensibly to get new grease cups 
for the car, but probably to go to the movies. 
Besant, himself, read for a while, walked down 
and inspected the boats, but put in most of the 
hours simply smoking and basking in the sun. 

At tea time the family met again, straggling out 
on the terrace in the same lackadaisical manner. 
As usual, Connie was absent, but as for the general 
tone of the occasion, the afternoon’s occupations 
seemed to have done them all good. Even Besant 
began to feel strangely at home. 

The tea itself had just been brought out and 
Cynthia Crewe had sat down at the spirit lamp 
128 . / 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


129 


when the butler came to her chair and said some¬ 
thing over her shoulder. She rose, went into the 
house, and when she returned spoke at once to 
Besant with a mischievous smile. 

“Mr. Besant, I have good news for you. Dorothy 
Sanford is coming to-night. She asked after you 
and told me to give you her love.” 

Naturally Besant flushed, but already Mrs. 
Crewe had looked up at the name. 

“Dorothy Sanford?” she asked. “What is she 
coming for? She’s only just gone.” 

Her daughter looked toward her in surprise. 
“Why, mother!” she exclaimed, gently. “I’m sure 
she won’t come if you don’t wish her.” 

And apparently her mother had spoken more 
tartly than she had intended. “Oh no!” she said. 
“I didn’t mean that. I’m glad to have her. But 
Dorothy Sanford’s so noisy. I don’t want a lot 
of fuss in this heat.” 

As if this outbreak were a matter of frequent 
occurrence, the daughter smoothed the matter 
down, but nevertheless proceeded just as she had 
intended to do in the first place. 

“The poor child’s lonely,” she explained, more 
to the company at large than to her mother. “She 
finds that her father won’t be up, this week end, 
at all, and naturally she doesn’t want to stay in 
that great, empty house all alone.” 

From inside the long, screened windows 
sounded a voice that was now familiar and Connie 
came stalking out on the terrace in better spirits 
than Besant had yet seen. 




130 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Who doesn’t want to stay in a great empty 
house?” she demanded. “Who’s coming now?” 

“Dorothy Sanford,” answered Serrano, promptly, 
“the antidote to you!” 

To Besant’s surprise, Connie did not take the 
slightest offense. Indeed, she seemed to enjoy a 
good, sportsman-like thrust. 

“Well, well, well!” she mused. “Our little 
Dorothy. So she’s coming back, is she? That’s 
good. Now our cast will be all complete.” With 
her slow, calm manner she turned to Besant. “You 
know Dorothy Sanford, don’t you, Mr. Besant?” 

Besant found no answer but to nod, and Connie 
added, with a faint twinkle, “And what kind of 
a mining engineer is she ?! 9 




Chapter XXIII 

I F Dorothy Sanford, however, was to make her 
appearance that day, she would have to make it, 
as Besant had done, very late in the evening. At 
dinner time she had not arrived, nor for an hour 
or so afterward. Coffee was served in one of the 
long, formal drawing-rooms and Besant’s one hope 
was that Serrano would be induced to play. He 
even spoke of this tentatively, to Cynthia Crewe, 
and, somewhat to his embarrassment, she repeated 
the request to Serrano. The latter came at once 
to where Besant was standing. 

“You really like music?” he asked. “You want 
me to play? I only wish that I could, but the salt 
air has got into all of my strings. I haven’t one 
that is any good. I am hoping to get some more by 
mail to-morrow.” 

His eagerness was quite unexpected to Besant, 
who had the idea that famous musicians could 
never be persuaded to play in private houses, but, 
from their first meeting that morning, Serrano had 
attached himself to Besant with a good will which 
Besant himself was not quite ready to explain. 

In any case, it was too fine an evening for any 
of them to stay long indoors and the company 
quickly dissolved, Besant finding himself again in 
sole possession of the terrace with nothing to do 
but smoke in the starlight. When all the lights 
behind him were extinguished except those in the 
131 




132 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


halls, he rose and went up to his rooms. There 
were some books up there on saddlery and gar¬ 
dening, more curious than interesting, into which 
he had wished to look. He had just taken down 
the first volume when he heard a motor car on 
the drive outside and, a few minutes later, feminine 
voices in the hall. 

Again the house grew quiet, and Besant read in 
a casual fashion until nearly twelve o’clock. He 
had just replaced the books in their former order 
and was going to bed when a knock came at his 
door. In some surprise he called out, “Come in.” 

The door opened and Ruiz Serrano entered the 
room with a quiet, matter-of-face manner com¬ 
pletely different from his usual bouncing air. 

“I hope I am not disturbing you, Mr. Besant,” 
he said, “but the girls left me all alone, just as they 
did you. I can never sleep. I was strolling around 
the grounds when I saw a light in your room. I 
thought perhaps you would not mind if I came 
up for a few minutes’ chat.” 

“Not at all,” answered Besant. “Won’t you sit 
down?” 

Looking around the room casually and selecting 
a chair, the visitor sat down. He seemed com¬ 
pletely at his ease and said nothing more while 
he carefully inserted a fresh cigarette in the long 
ivory holder which he held in his hand. As he 
lighted a match he looked up again with a smile. 

“Well,” he announced, “your little neighbor. 
Miss Sanford, has arrived at last. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


133 


“I’m thoroughly glad of it,” he added, a moment 
later. “She’s good for the soul.” 

The visitor paused in a way that showed clearly 
enough that he was merely making this casual 
statement until he could get to the point of what 
he had actually come to say. For a moment he 
watched the smoke of his fresh cigarette a little 
uneasily, then turned abruptly. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “I think it is only fair to 
tell you that I know perfectly well why you are 
here.” 

It was the frankness of the statement rather than 
the fact itself that took Besant most completely by 
surprise. 

“I imagine that you all must,” he answered, 
rather stiffly. “Miss Connie’s rather pointed state¬ 
ments at luncheon left little doubt of that in my 
mind.” 

“Poor Connie,” smiled Serrano. “She is a good 
girl, but how difficult life is going to be for her 
if she never passes an opportunity to bang 
humanity in the eyes.” 

Besant smiled a faint agreement, but Serrano 
drew the conversation immediately to its main 
theme. 

“This is going to be a very difficult situation for 
both of us, Mr. Besant. You are here to watch 
me and as long as you are here I must be eternally 
conscious that I am being watched.” He drew 
a long puff from his cigarette holder, then added, 
more in his usual way: “But if I must be watched, 
Mr. Besant, by a man of your sort, can’t we agree 




134 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


on a certain etiquette of the duel? In other words, 
is there anything to prevent a humorous twinkle 
or two between the clashes of arms?” 

“I don’t see why there should be,” agreed 
Besant. He added, slowly, “It is possible that 
my own position is not quite thoroughly under¬ 
stood.” 

“I hope so,” said Serrano. “Well, then-” 

But before he could continue Besant held up 
his hand. “Wait a minute,” he commanded. 
“What is that?” 

For a moment both men sat in a tense, listening 
silence in which nothing was heard. Then softly, 
from out of the darkness, under the window, 
began a strange snuffling sound. There was 
another moment of silence; then came a woman’s 
voice, in a piercing shriek! 





Chapter XXIV 


T the wild shriek from under the walls of the 



n house both men leaped to the windows, only 
to realize, as quickly, the utter futility of that move. 
With a single impulse, both turned and rushed to 
the door. Serrano was the first to reach it, but, 
his hand on the knob, he stopped with an oddly 
firm air of authority. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, quietly, “just a minute, 
before we go out. Don’t let us make this thing 
any worse than it is.” 

“Open that door!” commanded Besant, sharply; 
but before the words had been even spoken he 
realized that the other man had been entirely 
right. The shriek had not been repeated. In 
other parts of the vast stone building it might 
not even have been heard. A wild rush down 
the halls would only have served to rouse the whole 
household. 

Serrano flushed at the sharpness of the tone 
in which he had been addressed, but he did not 
stop to argue. He opened the door at once, and 
Besant followed him out. 

In the hallways, which were lighted only by dim 
night lights, were found merely that heavy 
padded silence and the faint smell of upholstery 
which Besant had begun to associate with them, 
and the two men crept quietly to the broad main 
staircase. At the bottom, under a dim red light. 


135 




136 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


could be seen a furtive, listening figure in a 
padded Chinese-silk dressing gown, one hand on 
the stone newelpost, peering anxiously into the 
dimness of the lower hall. 

As the two men stepped cautiously down the 
stone stairs, Serrano spoke in a low tone. The 
figure started in alarm, then relaxed and waited 
for them to come down. It was Cynthia Crewe. 
As Serrano reached the step above her and put 
his hand out solicitously, she looked first at him 
and then at Besant with pleading, frightened eyes. 

“It’s Connie!” she whispered. “Where is she? 
What’s happened? Where can she be?” 

“Connie?” exclaimed Serrano. “What do you 
mean?” 

The girl’s arm in its wide, drooping sleeve, 
moved with an angry impatience. “Connie!” she 
insisted. “Didn’t you hear her? I knew her voice. 
Aren’t you going to do something? Go see what’s 
the matter.” 

Again taking the lead, Serrano cautiously 
stepped down into the darkness of the hallway, 
Besant* following at his heels. At the opening of 
an alcove they were met by a sudden shaft of 
cool, fragrant night air and Serrano stepped 
quickly into a little side corridor as black as ink. 
As Besant followed he could hear Cynthia Crewe’s 
quick, frightened breaths over his shoulder. Ahead 
was an open doorway into the starlight, on the 
landward side of the house, and the two men 
crowded through it almost together. 

Beyond the open doorway were two stone steps, 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


137 


and Besant half missed the first. As he recovered 
himself he gave a quick, unintended exclamation, 
and Serrano whispered; “Be careful. There’s 
another below.” A moment later Besant felt the 
cool turf of the lawn through the thin soles of his 
evening shoes. 

But still only silence met them, the friendly 
silence of a June night—the chirp of a cricket, 
the scent of damp grass, and the faint, distant 
swish of the sea. Cautiously the two men had 
stepped out to explore in different directions, when 
Besant’s ear was caught by the same low, snuffling 
sound which he had heard from the window above. 
Looking in the direction from which it had come, 
he saw a dim patch of white in the darkness and 
turned quickly back toward the wall of the house. 
As he drew nearer he heard a repressed sob, a 
quick, hysterical drawing of breath, and saw a 
frail figure shrinking back into an angle of the 
stonework, not ten feet from the door. He had 
almost reached the figure before he saw that it 
was Connie, weeping in frightened, muffled gasps, 
her hands over her face. 

“Miss Crewe!” he said, in a low voice. “What’s 
happened?” 

Instantly Serrano was at his side, but Cynthia 
Crewe, who had been waiting timidly in the door¬ 
way, rushed almost fiercely past them both and 
took the younger girl in her arms. 

“Connie! Connie, sweetheart!” she begged. 
“What is it? What are you doing here?” 

For a moment her sister answered only with 




138 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


frightened gasps, then replied in thin, broken sobs. 
“There was someone there!” she gasped. “Some 
one touched me. It brushed against me. I could 
hear some one breathe!” 

“Who touched you?” asked Besant, quickly. 
“What direction was it?” 

But the older sister put up her arm and waved 
him back. “Please don’t,” she begged, gently. 
“Not now.” 

Still supporting her trembling and shrinking 
sister, the older girl carefully led the way back 
up the steps of the house. The two men waited 
until they had passed through the little dark 
corridor and the outline of their heads had 
appeared again in the faint, red light of the main 
hall beyond. Only then did they follow, Serrano 
carefully closing and locking the door from the 
inside. As they, themselves, passed into the light 
of the hall there began to be visible the first signs 
of a tardy and hesitant general alarm. At the 
rear end of the hall a service door opened and 
there appeared the blinking, uncertain face of one 
of the menservants. Seeing the two guests still 
in their dinner clothes, walking casually toward 
the stairs, the man apparently concluded that he 
must have been mistaken and hurriedly closed the 
door. A moment later, in the hallway above, 
Besant could hear Mrs. Crewe’s querulous, anxious 
voice, and then hear Cynthia reassuring her in 
quiet, firm tones. 

“Nothing, mother. It’s absolutely nothing. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


139 


Nothing’s happened at all. I’ll tell you about it in 
the morning.” 

By the time that Besant and Serrano had reached 
the head of the stairway both sisters had dis¬ 
appeared, and without a word the two men turned 
off to their rooms. It was hardly necessary for 
either of them to say that there could be no con¬ 
tinuance of their talk that night. 




Chapter XXV 

A S usual, it was Tim Hannigan who wakened 
Besant on the following morning. 

“Well, Mr. Besant,” he hailed, “and who are you 
going to lick to-day ?” 

By this cheery salutation, Besant knew that Tim 
had settled once more into the habits of his regular 
routine, for Tim had greeted him with exactly that 
same phrase on every pleasant morning for six 
months. On stormy days he varied it by saying: 
“Well, Mr. Besant, raining again. Guess we’ll 
have to give back the money and send the crowd 
home.” 

Besant, however, was not in the mood to respond 
to gayety, and apparently even Tim had been 
boisterous merely as a matter of form. As soon 
as he saw that his master was thoroughly awake 
he stepped to the side of the bed and spoke in a 
tone of heavy confidence. 

“Say, Mr. Besant,” he demanded, “what kind of 
a place is this, anyway? What’s the big idea? 
Of this midnight business?” 

“What do you mean by this midnight business?” 
asked Besant. 

Tim nodded his head and winked his eye with 
the air of a man on whom the world had never 
yet slipped over any of the shady stuff. 

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “Last night I was 
140 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


141 


coming home pretty late. Fact it was just about 
twelve o’clock- 

A sudden suspicion which might be highly 
enlightening or highly vexatious crept at once into 
Besant’s mind. “What were you doing out at that 
hour?” he interrupted. 

Tim wilted into a shamefaced grin. “I’ll tell 
you,” he repeated. “You see, I had a little business 
back at Manhasset.” 

“Back at Manhasset? You ought to have told 
me if you were going back there.” 

“I know,” confessed Tim, “but I didn’t want to 
get you all worked up. You see, this was just a 
little matter of the ferret.” 

“The ferret?” echoed Besant. “Have you still 
got that little beast with you?” 

Tim’s eyes opened with righteous indignation. 
“And where else could I have him?” he demanded. 
“Somebody’s got to feed him, ain’t they? He’s 
made all the trips with me except this last one, 
and now I’ve got him up in a box in my room.” 

“Go on,” said Besant, helplessly. 

Tim was willing to meet him halfway and at 
once he dropped his own indignant tone. 

“You see,” he explained, “me and that fellow 
downstairs was wondering what we could do to 
start up a little interest in the sporting line.” 

“What fellow downstairs?” asked Besant. 

“The Englishman,” replied Tim, “the one that 
saw Bombardier Wells fight Carpentier. He’s the 
sort of odd man around the house—cleans the 
silver and waxes the floors and so on. Him and 





142 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


me is getting quite pally. So, yesterday afternoon, 
I asked him if he ever see a first-class ferret and 
he says, ‘No-indeed,’ and so I takes him down to 
my room over the stables and shows him Rexy.” 

“Is that the ferret’s name?” asked Besant. 

“Well it is until I find a better one,” replied 
Tim. “I tells the little loafer that if he wants a 
better name he’s got to earn it. 

“Anyway,” continued Tim, “when the English¬ 
man sees Rexy he says, ‘Aoh!’ he says, ‘do you call 
that a ferret? That’s what we calls a polecat in 
the aold country.’ 

“ ‘You’re a damn liar,’ I says. ‘A polecat is a 
skunk and this is a ferret.’ 

“ ‘Well, we won’t fight about it,’ he says. ‘What 
can he do?’ 

“ ‘He can kill rats, for one thing,’ I says. 

“ ‘You don’t say!’ says the Englishman. ‘Let’s 
see him kill one.’ 

“So he fussed around downstairs where the 
horses are and comes back with a big wire trap 
with a rat in it—alive and all whiskers. Seems 
they always have trouble with rats around the 
grain and they have a trap set all the time. But 
they leave one rat in it to draw the others. Get 
the idea?” 

“I get it,” replied Besant, solemnly. 

“And so,” continued Tim, “we poked around 
until we found a big empty crate that some fancy 
poultry had come in—live ducks. It had wire 
netting over the top. ‘This ’ll make an excellent 
ring,’ says the Englishman. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


143 


“So the Englishman opens the trap and dumps 
in the rat and I opens the peach basket and dumps 
in Rexy. Then we claps the wire netting back 
over the top. ‘Now go to it!’ we says.” 

“Did they?” asked Besant. 

“Naaw!” replied Tim, contemptuously. “All 
they did was to each sit in a corner. They didn’t 
even look at each other. There was some feathers 
there of the poultry and the ferret he begun to 
sniff a little at those. So I kicked the box. ‘Come 
on, gentlemen,’ I says. ‘The gong ain’t rung yet. 
What you stalling for? Trying to sell us the 
picture rights ? Give us a little action,’ I says. But 
even that didn’t do no good. 

“ ‘That’s a hell of a ferret,’ says the Englishman, 
and, as it was, I didn’t have no comeback. 

“So then we sits down and begins to figure how 
we could work some kind of a game on the other 
lads, especially the lads in the stable. I says: ‘I 
tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go back to the man who 
sold me this ferret and find out what he will fight.’ 

“ ‘Maybe he won’t fight nothing,’ says the 
Englishman. 

“ ‘Well, I never saw anything yet,’ I says, ‘that 
wouldn’t fight something. Even actors will fight 
each other.’ 

“So just about dark I hops in the car and zipped 
it back to Manhasset to have a talk with the man 
who had sold me the ferret. I guess he knew I’d 
be coming back sooner or later, ’cause he looked 
at me kind of funny. I told him how the ground 




144 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


lay and he says, right off, ‘What you want,’ he 
says, ‘is a weasel.’ 

“ ‘Why do I want a weasel?’ I says. ‘You 
can’t work that on me again. You’ve already sold 
me a bum ferret. If I buy anything more of you, 
it ’ll be a rattlesnake or a tiger. I want something 
with guts,’ I says, ‘something you ’ll guarantee to 
win the belt or money refunded.’ 

“ ‘All right,’ says the man, ‘I’ll do business with 
you on that basis.’ 

“You see,” explained Tim to his master, “a 
weasel and a ferret looks just about alike, but a 
weasel is ten times as good a fighter. The only 
trouble is that a weasel ain’t white except in the 
winter. I told the man I was staging a ferret fight 
inside a week and I couldn’t wait until winter.” 

“And so,” interrupted Besant, “I suppose that the 
man advised you to paint a weasel.” 

Tim grinned. “Well it wasn’t exactly that,” he 
confessed, “but something like it. Give him a 
week, the man says, and he’ll furnish a weasel 
that couldn’t be told from a ferret. You see what 
we’re going to do? We’re going to stage a fake 
fight, maybe this evening—Rexy versus the rat, us 
rooting hard for Rexy, talking big about what a 
wonderful scrapper he is and how we wouldn’t 
take no money for him. Course when they get in 
the ring Rexy lies down on us cold and the other 
lads give us the ha-ha. They see there ain’t noth¬ 
ing to it. Then of course me and the Englishman 
we pretend to get awful disgusted and sore—call 
the poor ferret all kinds of names. We let the 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


145 


other lads kid us for two or three days—do nothing 
but stand it. Then sudden we seem to get angry. 
Now do you get me? We offer to bet that our 
ferret can lick any rat they bring on. Then of 
course we ring in the weasel—put him up on the 
bijlls as Rexy—and clean the whole crowd right 
down to their boot straps.” 

“But how,” suggested Besant, “do you know that 
that man in Manhasset won’t simply sell you 
another ferret?” 

“I’ve thought of that,” replied Tim, “but a 
ferret’s* got red eyes and a weasel ain’t.” 

“But won’t the rest of the crowd see that,” 
asked Besant, “on the night of the avalanche?” 

Tim grinned. “No they won’t,” he replied. 
“Not where we’re going to stage it.” 




Chapter XXVI 

B ESANT turned on his pillows and picked up 
his watch from the little stand at the head of 
the bed. 

“Tim,” he suggested, “I don’t want to break in 
on the sporting films or the news of the day, but 
when are you going to spring your big-feature 
story?” 

“Just a minute,” said Tim. “I’m coming to 
that, but I wanted to explain how it was, so you 
wouldn’t think I was running away just for 
nothing. 

“Well,” resumed Tim, “what with the man and 
all and a bunch of boys who wanted to see me 
down at Portuguese Joe’s, it was pretty late when 
I got back here, and I had forgotten clean that 
the main gates to the grounds was likely to be 
locked. Sure enough, they was. I wasn’t going 
to wake up that crab who lives in the gate house 
and make any more disturbance. I nearly had to 
punch his head for him the first night I got here. 
So I runs the car down to the service gates near the 
stables; but they was locked, too. The only thing 
for it was to douse my lights, lock up the trans¬ 
mission, and leave the car outside in the sand. 

“Then I begins to say to myself, ‘Now, how do I 
get into this dandy arena?’ It looked for a time as 
if I’d have to shinny up over the wall, but then 
I remembered that I had seen a little foot gate with 
146 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


147 


a turnstile, just wide enough to let in one person. 
It was dark as Joe Gans out there in the lots, and 
all the sand in Massachusetts got into my shoes. 
But I goes feeling my way up along the wall and 
had almost got to the place where the gate ought 
to be, when sudden I stops. Click! goes the 
turnstile and someone comes out. It looks to me 
just like a girl. 

“Whoever it was, they didn’t see me. They 
looks around for a bit and then gives a sort of low 
whistle—like this, ‘Hoo-hoo.’ ” 

Tim grinned. “Well,” he said, “I’m whiling to 
hoo-hoo with anyone. So, thinks I, I’ll take a 
chance. And I whistles back—just the same way. 
‘Hoo-hoo,’ I says, ‘Hoo-hoo.’ But I guess I wasn’t 
the lad for who they was giving the party. The 
girl, or whoever it was, ducks back through the 
gate, and at the same time some one else comes 
sliding down the outside of the wall on the far side 
of the gate, making an awful crash in the ivy.” 

“Did you see who it was?” asked Besant, 
quickly. 

“Gosh, no!” replied Tim, “but I could hear him 
grunt as he landed and I could hear him run. 
‘Don’t mind me,’ I says to myself—‘don’t mind me. 
I ain’t got no warrant for nobody.’ 

“Just the same, while I was waiting for things 
to quiet down I thought I’d nosy around a little. 
So I goes sneaking along in the same direction 
and, by George! there was another car waiting 
outside the walls—with all the lights out and 
nobody in it. ‘Smokes!’ I says to myself, ‘if I 




148 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


didn’t know this place was respectable, I’d begin 
to think they was selling something here.’ 

“Thinks I, I’ll give this little car the once-over 
It was one of them snappy little Eyetalian cars— 
a four-cylinder Fabre with a New York license 
and a funny radiator. As soon as I sees it I gets 
a sort of a hunch. I says to myself, ‘I’ve seen that 
car somewhere before.’ You know them little 
Fabres ain’t as common as flivers. ‘Mr. Car,’ I 
says, ‘I’m going to get your number. Then the 
next time I see you I’ll know who you are.’ I 
had a match all ready to light, but then I thinks, 
‘Shucks! it’s none of my business.’ I decided I’d 
scared enough people for one night. So I goes 
back to the turnstile. 

“By this time,” continued Tim, “the coast seems 
to be all clear. I walks in through the gate and 
starts toward the house. Then, by Jiminy! back 
again through the little park comes this same 
lassie I’d seen before. I could tell her because 
the spots of white was all in the same places. I 
stood right still and hugged up to a tree like I was 
part of it. She passed not ten feet away.” 

“Did you see what she looked like?” demanded 
Besant. 

“It was too dark for that,” replied Tim, “but, 
Mr. Besant, let me tell you something. You know 
that little joke suitcase that we rigged up for you— 
me and Miss Sanford?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, when Miss Sanford first brought it out, 
that afternoon in Manhasset, the little bottle inside 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


149 


it was full of perfumery. ‘Smell,’ says Miss San¬ 
ford, and so I smelled. Fine stuff, I thought it. 1 
said you’d like it fine for when you wore evening 
dress. But Miss Sanford says, ‘No, we’ll have to 
give him something more suitable to his viryle 
character.’ So she dumped it all out, right in the 
sink. For a minute you’d thought they’d been 
giving a flower show right there in the Sanfords’ 
kitchen—or maybe a Syrian w T edding. Then she 
washed out your little bottle and filled it up with 
some kind of wine. But last night when this 
lady passed in the dark I smelled exactly the same 
kind of perfume. You couldn’t miss it. I’d already 
smelled too much of it not to know it again. 

“But was it Miss Sanford herself that you saw 
last night in the grounds?” asked Besant. 

“How was I to know?” retorted Tim. “At any 
rate, I was hoping to Nob that it wasn’t. So I 
hugged up to my tree and crossed my fingers and 
tried not to breathe. Then what do you think?” 

“I’ve given up thinking,” answered Besant 
“What was it?” 

“Just then,” replied Tim, “when I was making 
up my mind to sneak out and go on, another young 
lady comes creeping up right to my tree, not 
knowing I was behind it. She stood there and 
waited nearly a minute. I’ll bet you. I must have 
moved or something, for sudden she gave a little 
sort of ‘Heh!’ then put out her hand and touched— 
not the bark of the tree, like she expected, but 
Scissors Hannigan!” 

“What did she do?” asked Besant. 




150 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Do?” answered Tim. “She yelled. Gol-lee! 
what a yell! I never heard anything like it 
except a fire engine, and I never heard that three 
inches from my ear. I must have jumped ten feet 
on the first hop, and the next thing anyone knew 
about me I was up in my room over the stables, 
pulling the blankets on top of my face and snoring 
like all-get out—to prove my own alibi.” 




Chapter XXVII 


LTHOUGH Besant was already in possession 



n of one or two details to supplement Tim 
Hannigan’s narrative, he saw no reason for sharing 
them with his ingenuous valet. As soon as Tim 
had gone he arose to a day which, in its outward 
features, promised to be much like that which 
had preceded it. The same manservant, with his 
polite “Good morning, sir,” served his breakfast in 
his rooms, then left him entirely to his own 
devices; but, as Serrano himself had pointed out, 
the utter solitude in which one was left in the 
Crewe house was not without its advantages. For 
one thing, it left plenty of time to think, and, like 
Tim, Besant began to feel that the time had come 
to settle down to the serious business of his 
mission. Having now, as it were, surveyed the 
field, he might draw at least some preliminary 
conclusions. He lighted his pipe, picked out a big, 
cool chintz armchair in his little sitting room, and 
sat down to think matters over. 

Concerning Serrano, Besant could still hold but 
one serious opinion. The man might, at the 
worst, be a vexatious trifler, one of those glib, 
cosmopolitan creatures in whom a fast flow of 
inconsequence passes for charm. In the sense that 
he was willing to marry a wealthy girl in order 
to further his own career, he might even be rated 
as an ambitious adventurer. But with these 


151 




152 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


points—purely as such—Besant did not see how 
he himself could have more than a formal concern. 
He might state them—yes. Damon Crewe had 
distinctly asked him to do that. Besant had been 
twice assured that his office was not so much that 
of an investigator as of a friendly guardian; but 
if there were nothing more serious than this 
against the young violinist, the real decision must, 
in Arthur Cramp’s words, rest ultimately with 
Cynthia Crewe and her father. In order to reduce 
the matter to that simple basis, Besant saw that 
his first efforts must be to sort out the more 
noxious evidence, to eliminate those facts which 
were puerile or accidental and be prepared to use 
his cold common sense in judging any new 
developments which might arise. 

If Royal Besant’s very genuine police experience 
had taught him nothing else, it had at least taught 
him not to waste effort in vague, romantic direc¬ 
tions. In actual life a detective does not spend 
much time on finger marks or cigar ashes. To get 
at the pith of a case he simply asks at once for a 
list of the victim’s nearest acquaintances. 

In this light Royal Besant was ready to treat the 
packet of anonymous letters. Taken purely by 
themselves, it would have required the whole Post 
Office Department of the United States to make 
any real effort to trace them. Besant had decided 
to use a more common and much simpler method 
—to discover first the person who would be most 
likely to have written them, and then, working 
backward, connect that individual with the 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


153 


letters. From his general knowledge of such 
affairs, as well as from the way in which the letters 
themselves had been phrased and addressed, 
Besant had been convinced from the first that the 
web of ill will cast over Serrano had originated 
somewhere within the confines of Damon Crewe’s 
own social circle. That Damon Crewe himself 
believed the same thing, he had distinctly hinted. 

For the present, then, Besant decided that his 
principal task lay right at his hand, within the 
Crewe household—to study the personalities 
centered therein and to formulate a more definite 
picture of what was actually happening. What 
made this task peculiarly difficult was the rather 
chivalric plane on which he had volunteered his 
own services and on which, apparently, they had 
been accepted. Except for old Mr. Crewe himself, 
he was not even at liberty to ask the simplest 
questions. 

The episode of the previous evening was a case 
in point. What had Connie been doing out there 
in the park at midnight? Did her presence there 
have any connection at all with the presence of 
the other young woman whom Tim had seen, with 
that of the man who had jumped off the wall, or 
with that of the unlighted car which had been 
waiting outside the gates in the darkness? 

In the case of a girl of Connie’s bleak, rather 
sullen temperament, her part in the adventure 
might have been wholly by chance. She was of 
just the type and just the age to form habits of 
strolling around at all hours of the night, simply 




154 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


to vent her smoldering moods on the starlight. 
Two or three direct, harmless questions might 
have immediately cleared away this whole phase 
of the incident, but even those questions Besant 
knew that he would never be permitted to ask. 
Cynthia Crewe’s pleading gesture in the darkness 
had silenced for all time that line of investigation. 

That the nature of his own mission was known 
to several persons in the house was also a matter 
of no great surprise to Besant. Cynthia Crewe 
and Serrano, at least, would have been very simple 
indeed if they had not suspected it. In the sensi¬ 
tive, nervous state in which both of them must 
have been living for months, such facts have a 
way of communicating themselves by a sort of 
self-conscious intuition. When a single problem 
has been distorting a household for months and 
an utter stranger appears for an indefinite visit, 
it would be an exceedingly innocent mind which 
did not at once look for some connection. 

Furthermore, thanks to the peacock and Dorothy 
Sanford, Besant was now anything hut a stranger 
—and anything but a mining engineer. As Besant 
himself had suspected in advance. Cramp’s 
clumsy ruse concerning his profession must have 
been about as deceptive as a baby’s rattle. What¬ 
ever its purpose, Cynthia Crewe’s first flight from 
home had been terminated abruptly at the house 
of her friend and ally in Manhasset—and 
terminated, without doubt, because the family 
attorney had immediately appeared in the same 
vicinity. In Dorothy Sanford’s words, it had 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


155 


been Arthur Cramp, and not Tim, who had pre¬ 
maturely spilled the beans. 

That Cramp had appeared in Manhasset largely 
by accident the two conspirators next door could 
have had no absolute way of knowing. The fact 
that Cramp and Besant had spent a long hour in 
close consultation must have been quite sufficient 
for them at that awkward moment. For all they 
knew, Besant might have been in touch with the 
family lawyer for months and, whether he had 
or not, his connection with the case had been 
obvious from that time on. Under Dorothy San¬ 
ford’s adroit questioning, poor Tim Hannigan had 
told several things that both young women knew 
to be the most ridiculous fabrications. And the 
next day Besant himself had appeared at Legget’s 
Harbor. It would have been an idiot indeed who 
would not have suspected, at least in a general way, 
why he had come. The only surprise to Besant was 
that Cynthia Crewe and her lover were willing to 
accept his intrusion in such a sportsman-like 
spirit. 

Nothing, in short, had yet occurred to alter 
materially Besant’s original opinion of the situa¬ 
tion. In rather eager interest as to what this new 
day might bring forth, he rose from the chintz 
armchair in his little sitting room, knocked out 
his pipe, and prepared to sally forth. A new 
development was to appear, however, from an 
unexpected quarter, for, without a knock, the door 
suddenly burst open and Tim Hannigan came 
grinning in. 




156 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Tim carefully closed the door and looked 
cautiously around, as if half the world were within 
hearing. Then, facing his master, he gave a huge, 
confidential wink and jerked his head over one 
shoulder. 

“Say, Mr. Besant,” he announced, “I’ve got a 
good one!” 

Besant was rather fed up on Tim for the 
moment, impatient to get away. “Don’t tell me,” 
he said, “that you’ve been to Manhasset again 
—or arranged a new fight between an angleworm 
and a spider.” 

“Oh no!” replied Tim. “It ain’t nothing like 
that. But you remember what I was telling you— 
about last night? About the man on the wall 
that jumped down and ran away when I told the 
girl hoo-hoo?” 

“Yes, I remember,” said Besant. “What about 
it?” 

“Well, this about it,” said Tim. “You know that 
Swiss fellow down in the servants’ quarters—the 
one that’s valet to Mr. Serrano?” 

Besant nodded and Tim winked again. “Well, 
I just found out something about that Switzer. 
He ain’t appearing to-day, he ain’t. Know why? 
He’s in bed with swollen-up hands and a fine 
sprained ankle!” 




Chapter XXVIII 

H AVING learned from the previous day where 
to find the center of life in the big Crewe 
mansion, Besant, on leaving his rooms, headed at 
once for the sunshine of the east terrace. His 
instinct, moreover, had been quite correct, for, as 
Besant hesitated for a moment at the long French 
windows, he found Dorothy Sanford and Ruiz 
Serrano engaged in a sober and intimate con¬ 
ference across the little wicker table. Serrano 
looked exceedingly cool and well groomed in a 
suit of whiter flannel, while as for Dorothy San¬ 
ford, Besant knew that he would never find any 
better description than Tim’s of his little 
neighbor—“yellow hair, about half my size, and 
always laughing.” The flaxen hair was especially 
noticeable this morning, for, even in the second 
in which Besant hesitated at the windows, he 
could see the morning sunlight glimmering 
through its light, piquant waves in a peculiarly 
fascinating manner. 

Besant was almost obliged to give a stage cough 
before the two persons on the terrace were aware 
of his presence. He clicked the screen door, and 
both of them looked up with a guilty air which 
was not less conspicuous for the nonchalance with 
which both tried to cover it. 

Dorothy Sanford was the first to speak as 
Besant stepped out on the flagstones. “Hello, 
157 




158 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Sherlock!” she hailed, gayly. “Do you always 
sleep as late as this? Because if you do we shall 
never see anything of each other in Manhasset.” 

Besant laughed. “I haven’t been sleeping,” he, 
said. “I have been indulging in the rare luxury 
of having breakfast hurled at me in my own 
rooms. Also I have been going through a great 
mass of deep thought. I always make it a practice 
to think for twenty minutes after breakfast, and 
then I am through for the day. But why do you 
call me ‘Sherlock’?” 

His little neighbor laughed. “Fine question for 
you to ask—after the letter you wrote me.” She 
broke off abruptly and made a move as if to 
include Serrano in the situation. “But, anyway, 
you’re just in time, Mr. Besant, to tell us some¬ 
thing we both want to know. What’s good for 
poison ivy?” 

“Fertilizer, I suppose,” answered Besant, 
“frequent watering, pulling up all the other weeds, 
and careful hoeing between the rows.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly!” retorted the girl. “I mean 
what will cure it?” 

“Nothing,” answered Besant, “except time. 
Why? Who’s got it? Not you, I hope?” 

“Thank Heaven, no,” answered Miss Sanford, 
“but Frankie’s manservant is in the most acute 
stages.” 

For the first time Serrano broke into the con¬ 
versation. “Look here,” he commanded. “If you 
call me ‘Frankie’ again, I’ll take you down and 
throw you off the dock. ‘Francisco’ is bad 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


159 


enough, but ‘Frankie’ sounds like a plush purple 
suit and a broad lace collar.” 

He turned to Besant. “Mr. Besant, what would 
you do if your parents had given you any such 
gosh-awful name as ‘Francisco’?” 

“You’re no worse off than I am,” answered 
Besant. “My parents named me ‘Boyal.’ ” 

“That is the limit,” agreed Dorothy Sanford, 
pensively. “The only other thing one can call you 
is ‘Boy’ and that’s worse—if possible.” 

She glanced in her quick, eager manner from 
one to the other. “Haven’t you got any middle 
names—either one of you?” 

Serrano looked at Besant and Besant looked 
at Serrano in the odd, humorous sympathy which, 
in spite of their official relationship, they seemed 
so strangely to have established. Serrano turned 
back to their joint tormentor. 

“If I should tell you my name in full,” he 
replied, “you wouldn’t even stay with me on the 
terrace. You would go down of your own accord 
and jump off the dock.” 

“Well, try me, anyway,” answered the girl. 
“Gome on. Out with the rest of it. Don’t tell 
me it’s ‘Modeste Hyacinthe.’ ” 

“No,” answered Serrano, “but it’s almost as bad. 
It’s ‘Vivian Bernardo Patrick.’ ” 

The girl clapped her hands and banged both 
feet on the pavement of the terrace, like the 
gallery gods at a movie show. 

“Marvelous!” she exclaimed. “Let me have it 
again. ‘Francisco Vivian Bernardo Patrick Ruiz 




160 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Serrano!’ Why, it gets better and better as it 
goes along—like a Shriners’ parade! ‘Bernardo 
Patrick’? That’s the real backbone of the title. 
Hereafter it’s only a question of whether I call you 
‘Barney’ or ‘Pat.’ That’s something I’ll have to 
think over. Come on, now, Royal. What’s your 
middle name?” 

“My middle name,” said Besant, “is ‘Gam- 
midge.’ ” 

The girl threw herself back convulsively in her 
chair and covered her face with her hands. “Don’t! 
Don’t!” she begged. “I can’t stand it. I really 
can’t. ‘Royal Gammidge,’ ” she repeated, 
morosely. “And I had so hoped that your other 
name would be ‘Highness.’ ” 

“Why not ‘Baking Powder’?” suggested Besant. 
“That was what they used to call me at school.” 

The girl slowly drew her hands from her face 
and looked at him with an air of slow wonder. 
“What a glorious idea!” she exclaimed. “That’s 
exactly what I will call you.” 

“But you can’t,” retorted Besant, “because you 
say I don’t rise.” 

Serrano plunged suddenly forward and began 
to bang vigorously on the little wicker table. 
“Stop! Stop!” he commanded. “Stop this out¬ 
rage at once. Have I no rights—as an innocent 
bystander?” 

“I quite agree with you,” answered Miss San¬ 
ford. “These vigorous, masterful men like Royal 
never do know when to stop. What were we 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


161 


talking about when he came crashing into the 
conversation ?” 

Serrano rose from the table. “We were 
talking,” he said, “about my injured Swiss. I 
really think I ought to go up and see how much 
the poor fellow is actually suffering. They say 
he’s a terrible sight.” 

Instantly the girl herself changed to an honest 
solicitude. Her manner became as serious as it 
ever could be. 

“No, really, Frank,” she urged, “do just what I 
tell you. Go into the house and flush one of the 
maids and tell her to go to my room. She’ll find 
a gray tube of some stuff like a sort of yellow 
cold cream. She’ll know it because it’s got a 
French label. It’s wonderful for anything of that 
kind.” 

Serrano looked down at her, and for an instant, 
in their expressions Besant thought that he 
detected something almost like a signal passing 
between them. However, a brief “Much obliged” 
was all that Serrano actually said, and, presum¬ 
ably to obey instructions, he went into the house. 




Chapter XXIX 

T HE moment that he had gone the girl turned 
to Besant with an air which again was 
completely altered. 

“And now,” she suggested, in a fraternal fashion, 
“what are your plans? You surely don’t want to 
hang around here on the terrace all day?” 

It was certainly a relief to receive a frank invi¬ 
tation of that sort after being practically ignored 
by the rest of the Crewe household ever since his 
arrival. Furthermore, Besant knew that, wittingly 
or unwittingly, his lively, audacious little neighbor 
might prove to be his most direct source of counsel. 
Yet he did feel a certain reluctance at the idea 
of committing too freely any of his time. He 
glanced toward the little pavilion at the end of 
the pier, but saw that it remained still entirely 
vacant, with its awnings rolled up. 

“I should like very much,” he replied, “to do 
anything that you have to suggest, but I suppose 
that I ought to say a few words to Mr. Crewe. 
You know that, after all, I really have got certain 
things to talk over with him.” 

Dorothy Sanford came back at him promptly: 
“And what have I said to suggest that you 
haven’t?” 

Besant flushed, for, in a way, he saw that he 
had exposed his own hand a little more than was 
necessary. “You haven’t said anything,” ,he 
162 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


163 


replied, “but I gathered from your manner that 
you didn’t take me very seriously.” 

“My dear man,” answered the girl, “I take you 
very seriously indeed. But haven’t you found 
that when a group of people have something very 
serious in the back of their minds, the best way 
to get around it is to keep up an air of utter 
foolishness?” 

There could certainly be nothing fairer than 
that, and Besant was glad to answer the boldness 
of her confession with a similar confession of his 
own. 

“Serrano said something very much like that, 
last night,” he suggested, “and I suppose that you 
are both right.” 

The girl looked thoughtfully at the little wicker 
table. “Frank told me that he had tried to talk 
to you,” she commented, briefly, “but you didn’t 
get very far.” 

“That wasn’t my fault,” said Besant. 

“No,” answered the girl, “I know that it wasn’t.” 

She turned to Besant in a burst of confidence. 
“For Heaven’s sake, what was Connie doing out 
there last night and what was it that frightened 
her? Have you found out yet?” 

“I know what it was that frightened her,” 
answered Besant. “It was something quite 
harmless.” 

“What was it?” 

“Miss Sanford, please forgive me, but I don’t 
know that it would be exactly my place to go 
through the whole story.” 




164 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


The girl shrugged, a bit stiffly, “Just as you 
like.” 

A little note of offended constraint still remained 
in her manner and Besant was eager enough to 
dispel it. He hastened to add, “But what Miss 
Connie was actually doing out there at that hour 
I haven’t any idea. Have you?” 

The girl shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’ll 
tell you that, frankly—except that it would be 
just like that infernal Connie. I don’t think I 
have to tell you that Connie and I get on like salt 
and vinegar.” 

Besant laughed, and apparently it was impos¬ 
sible for Dorothy Sanford to continue long in a 
hostile reticence. Once more she turned suddenly, 
with her friendly, disarming smile. 

“Mr. Besant,” she demanded, “don’t tell me 
unless you want to, but are you honestly a 
detective?” 

Besant laughed aloud. “My dear Miss Sanford, 
do you think that any real detective would take 
a house and settle down in Manhasset for a whole 
winter?” 

“You haven’t answered my question,” retorted 
the girl, “but I think you meant to. Then, are you 
a lawyer?” 

Besant did feel that he was making a very 
caddish return for her own frankness. “No, Miss 
Sanford,” he said, quietly, “I am nothing but a 
plain ex-newspaper man. If it will simplify 
matters, I will say right off that I never heard of 
the Crewe family until the day before yesterday— 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


165 


except through general sources. I never saw Mr. 
Cramp in my life until he came to see me that 
morning that Tim chased the peacock.” 

“You may think,” answered Dorothy Sanford, 
“that you are making matters very clear, but 
actually you are just about as easy to probe as 
a jellyfish. I know that it is none of my affair, 
but Cynthia Crewe says that she knows for a fact 
that you are up here to keep her from marrying 
Frank Serrano.” 

“I am very sorry,” answered Besant, slowly, “if 
Miss Crewe thinks that—at least if she thinks it in 
just that way.” 

“But isn’t it true?” 

“Not wholly,” answered Besant. Then he 
added, quietly, “To use a very vulgar but very 
useful phrase, I am really up here to see that 
nobody takes any wooden money.” 




Chapter XXX 


VER the phrase the girl pondered a moment. 



and then sprang abruptly up from the table. 
“Well, that’s that!” she exclaimed. “And now 
the question arises, are we or are we not going 
sailing? The others don’t want us around. It’s 
up to us to amuse ourselves—the Manhasset dele¬ 
gation.” 

“If you can sail a boat, which I can’t,” replied 
Besant, “I’d like nothing better.” 

“I can run the speed boats,” answered his 
neighbor. “They are much more fun. How 
about it? Are you on?” 

* “With all my heart,” answered Besant. But 
again he hesitated. “I might do this: I might 
send word to Mr. Crewe and ask him whether or 
not he wants to see me. Do you think he would 
mind?” 

“He mind?” retorted Miss Sanford. “Never in 
the world. Mr. Crewe’s an old dear—except on 
one subject. I’ll ring, if you want, and send 
some one to ask him.” 

With her usual vivacity she stepped to the 
electric button beside the door, but before she 
could ring, Besant’s query was answered from 
another source. Dorothy Sanford stepped back 
with a rather chill air and Miss Dessler, the secre¬ 
tary, appeared in the doorway. With her prim, 
rigid manner she did not even look at Besant’s 


166 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


167 


companion, but spoke curtly and directly to him, 
not even granting him his name. 

“Mr. Crewe wishes to see you for a few- 
moments,” she said. “He is not leaving his room 
this morning. He wishes you to come there.” 

Without another word she stepped back into 
the house, but as she disappeared in the shadows 
Besant saw Dorothy Sanford’s eyes following her 
with a narrowed expression. There was some one 
else in the house beside Connie Crewe who had 
distinctly earned his little neighbor’s violent 
antipathy. 

“Respectability at its very worst,” was Dorothy 
Sanford’s comment on the retreating Miss 
Dessler. “Well, do you think you can go?” 

“I’ll soon find out,” answered Besant. 

“All right, then. I’ll wait for you, either here 
or at the boathouse.” 




Chapter XXXI 

I N the gloom of the stairway. Miss Dessler was 
waiting in a sort of martyred, stony impatience, 
and as she heard Besant’s step she merely turned 
and continued to the second floor. Besant fol¬ 
lowed her to a double doorway on the seaward 
side of the house, where the secretary stood aside 
like a court official and allowed him to pass. 

Inside, Besant found Damon Crewe propped up 
on pillows in his bed, but looking infinitely more 
ashy and shrunken than he had on the previous 
day. Nevertheless, he attempted to hail his visitor 
with a feeble gayety. 

“Sorry, Mr. Besant, to have to drag you to a sick 
room, but I wanted to talk to you just a few 
minutes.” The old gentleman looked nervously 
around the room. “Please shut that door,” he 
suggested. “Now come and sit down.” 

Besant took a chair by the side of the bed and 
again there swept over him the same wave of pity 
which he had felt on the previous day. Unlike 
the previous day, however, the sick man seemed 
to feel that he had no time for general conversa¬ 
tion. 

“Besant,” he asked, abruptly, “what happened 
last night?” 

Willingly enough Besant could tell his own early 
version of Connie’s adventure, including the fact 
that Serrano had been in his—Besant’s—own 
168 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


169 


rooms at the time and was thus exonerated from 
any immediate connection. Also Besant was able 
to inform his host that it had been merely his 
own harmless Tim who had frightened Connie. 
This part the banker heard with visible relief. 

“So that was it, was it?” 

He paused a moment, then looked sharply at 
the younger man. “And now what is it,” he said, 
“that you are holding back? There’s something, 
I know.” 

Besant had hoped to Spare the invalid any 
unnecessary worry about the other and more 
mysterious facts which had come to his knowledge, 
but he also knew that he could never deceive 
Damon Crewe. He concluded, indeed, that, as 
matters stood, the unknown might be more 
upsetting to him than the known. Thus, as briefly 
and as lightly as possible, he repeated the rest of 
Tim’s story—the details of the second young 
woman who had been in the gardens and who 
could have been neither Cynthia nor Connie, of 
the man who had jumped off the wall, and of the 
car which had been waiting outside on the 
moors. 

Only one detail did he omit—the identity of the 
man who had jumped down and run away in the 
darkness. For both Serrano’s sake and that of 
the anxious father Besant believed that it was not 
necessary to emphasize that detail until the facts 
had been more clearly established. He merely 
said that Tim, whose instinct on the underworld 
was as accurate as his own, had been quite sure 




170 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


that the man on the wall had been some one 
connected with the servants’ hall and that the 
whole affair might easily have been nothing more 
than a romantic rendezvous with one of the house¬ 
maids. Or, taking another suggestion from Tim, 
it was wholly possible that a little petty bootlegging 
was being carried on over the wall—that some 
outsider was smuggling a little moonshine to some 
of the men on the place. This would account for 
the car. In any case, Besant stated that he was 
ready to trust Tim’s instinct and that Tim had seen 
nothing about the affair over which to be 
alarmed. 

The old gentleman heard the whole story with 
a firm composure which was a relief to Besant. 
Deliberately he asked one or two more questions. 

“About this car that was waiting outside,” he 
suggested. “What kind of a car did you say it 
was? Or didn’t you tell me?” 

Besant hesitated, for he had not foreseen this 
question and a truthful answer would hardly 
accord with his well-meant theory of petty boot¬ 
legging. Nevertheless, a truthful answer was the 
one that he decided to give. 

“According to Tim,” he replied, “it was an 
Italian car—a four-cylinder Fabre.” 

The old gentleman looked toward him with an 
odd expression. “The only Fabre that 1 know of,” 
he said, “belongs to J. N. Sanford.” 

Besant started up with a look of protest. “But, 
my dear Mr. Crewe, you can’t believe that Miss 
Dorothy Sanford had anything to do with it.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


171 


The banker smiled faintly. “I merely said that 
the only Fabre that I knew belonged to Sanford.” 

“But Miss Sanford,” argued Besant, “came in 
long before the gates were shut. I heard her come 
into the house and come upstairs. And I had 
already heard her car on the driveway. If some 
one took it and drove it outside the walls again, 
it must have been-” 

“Who?” asked the banker, bluntly. 

“I don’t know,” confessed Besant, in a shame¬ 
faced way, “but probably the same man who 
jumped off the wall.” 

To this suggestion the invalid made no reply, 
and Besant continued, lamely, “And in any case 
Miss Sanford is surely a perfectly harmless young 
lady.” 

But again in return the old banker smiled. “I 
will admit,” he said, “that Dorothy Sanford is a 
very nice girl, but in this case I am not so sure 
that she is entirely harmless. Mr. Besant-” 

The old gentleman stopped short and this time 
it was Besant who attempted to supply the inter¬ 
pretation. 

“What were you going to say, sir?” he asked. 
“You think I am making a mess of it?” 

The old gentleman laughed curtly. “Oh no!” 
he answered. “I am not afraid of your brains, 
but I am a little afraid of your good intentions.” 

The sick man suddenly drew the embroidered 
counterpane two or three inches higher over his 
chest, and as if with that movement he ended one 






172 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


phase of the subject, his whole tone and manner 
also changed. 

“Besant,” he said, “something is brewing in this 
house to-day. I can feel it in the atmosphere.” 

His conviction and his agitation were so genuine 
that Besant looked at him in sudden alarm—alarm 
for his physical condition. 

“For one thing,” continued Damon Crewe, 
“another of those rotten letters came in my mail 
this morning. Put your hand under my pillow.” 

Besant did as he was told and drew out a slip 
of paper. On it was written in a round, non¬ 
committal hand: 

Dear Mr. Crewe: 

You have been warned and have paid no attention to 
any warnings. If you must wreck your daughter’s life 
there is no more to say. There is only one last chance. 
Get that charlatan out of your house and lock up your 
daughter in it. Two or three days more and you will find 
it too late. 

Enough. 

There was no other signature than this to the 
note and, as Besant found it, there was also no 
envelope. After the briefest study Besant put it 
in his pocket. His indignant wonder was not at 
the note itself, but at the unspeakable cruelty of 
anyone who, in the old gentleman’s present condi¬ 
tion, had allowed him to see it. His indignation 
swept sharply into his next question . 

“When did this come?” he asked. 

“This morning, with the other letters.” 

“And did you open your own mail this 
morning?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


173 


“Oh no!” 

“Then who did?” 

“Miss Dessler opened the business part and my 
wife looked through the personal. They brought 
them to me.” 

“And which part did this thing come in?” 

Besant asked the question, then suddenly 
stopped, for the old banker had turned aside and 
was gazing at the open windows with the same 
weary look with which, on the previous day, he had 
answered a similar question. At last he turned 
back with a slow, feeble movement. 

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “this thing came 
to me with Miss Dessler’s part of the mail.” Then 
he curtly added, “Thank Heaven.” 




Chapter XXXII 

F OR nearly a minute there was a silence in the 
sick room; then laboriously the old gentle¬ 
man gathered himself together. 

“Well, Mr. Besant,” he concluded, “I think that’s 
all. At any rate, I don’t feel up to talking any 
longer. But there is one thing I want to ask you. 
I may be foolish—I haven’t told any of the family 
—but this is one of my very bad days. I would 
feel a little happier if you would promise me to 
keep an eye out—on matters in general—to-night. 
Possibly it might be just as well if you didn’t go 
to bed.” 

Besant ‘answered, eagerly: “Indeed I will, sir. 
I’ll be on watch from this minute.” 

The old gentleman shook his head. “Oh no!” 
he said. “Nothing like that is necessary. Nothing 
will happen during the day—at least nothing that 
I care about. My daughter has promised to come 
in to see me at lunch time, and then to read to 
me between six and seven. She is the only one 
that I anrreally worrying about, and she will keep 
her promise.” 

Besant hesitated guiltily at the side of the bed. 
“To tell the truth, Mr. Crewe, I had promised to 
go for a little sail with Miss Sanford this morning. 
Probably I had better call it off.” 

Old Damon Crewe smiled. “Oh no! Go ahead. 
174 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


175 


If you can keep that young lady out of mischief, 
so much the better.” 

Besant answered his smile. “I can’t really 
feel,” he insisted, “that poor Miss Sanford is much 
of a menace. If she really does know anything 
about all this business, I am very sure that she 
will speedily tell it.” 

“Yes, yes,” agreed the banker. “You are 
probably right. Go ahead and have a good time. 
Only please come in and see me again for a 
minute or two this evening—just before the family 
goes down to dinner.” 




Chapter XXXIII 

I N spite of this reassurance, it was with none 
of his previous anticipation that Besant 
returned to his motor-boat expedition. Dorothy 
Sanford was not on the terrace and Besant con¬ 
tinued at once to the boathouse, a most substantial 
affair, built of gray stone in a uniform style with 
all the other buildings on the estate. The lofts 
and storerooms through which he entered were 
echoing and vacant. There was nothing in them 
but a few odd oars, a pennant or two, a few trophy 
cups, and a strong smell of varnish, but, emerging 
from the building again, on the water-front side, 
Besant found a series of docks and basins in one 
of which an oldish boatman was tuning the engine 
of a long, racy speed boat. This man, of a very 
different type from the house servants, looked up 
at Besant in a genial manner. 

“You going out with Miss Sanford?” he inquired. 
“She told me to tell you that she would be back in 
a minute.” He dabbed the engine a few last times 
with a bit of cotton waste, then looked up at 
Besant. “You going to run this ship to-day?” 

“I hope not,” laughed Besant. “I don’t know 
any more about motor boats than I do about 
flying.” 

The man nodded, evidently relieved. “Well, 
you needn’t worry,” he said. “Miss Sanford is 
176 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


177 


one of the best skippers on the coast She’ll get 
you back safely.” 

There was a step on the boardings, and Dorothy 
Sanford appeared through the door with a basket 
in her hand. The boatman greeted her like an 
old friend. “I was just telling this gentleman, 
Miss, that if he thinks you’re going too fast, not 
to jump overboard. It’s just part of your regular 
schedule.” 

Dorothy Sanford laughed. “All right, Mr. 
Tibbals. I’ll hold him tight if I see that he’s getting 
scared.” 

Handing the basket to Besant, she jumped lightly 
down to the deck and then to the cockpit, Besant 
following her in a more cautious and lubberly 
manner. 

“Sit there,” the girl ordered, pointing to the 
stern. 

“And hold on to your hair,” added the jovial 
boatman. 

Pushed cautiously out with the padded end of 
a boathook, the craft drifted idly around, and 
then, with the help of a line from the dock, swung 
its nose toward the open sea. Not until the 
friendly attendant had entirely cast off his own 
responsibility did Dorothy Sanford give more 
than a listless turn or two to the wheel. 

The boatman coiled his end of the line and 
skillfully tossed it on to the little deck. 

“All right. Pilot’s ashore,” he called. “Now, 
Cap’n, you’re in command.” 

Dorothy Sanford answered him with a wave of 




178 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


her hand, then suddenly straightened in her seat. 
Instantly there came a series of deafening, 
unmuffled explosions. At the same moment the 
boat began to churn and shove, then settled down 
to a steady, whizzing roar, while, suddenly 
appearing from nowhere, two blades of green- 
and-white water began to curl over the bows 
almost to the gunwales. The shores of the harbor 
began to skim by and, looking back, Besant saw 
the boathouse suddenly pulled and shrunk far into 
the distance. 

Out toward the mouth of the harbor the speed 
of the boat and its unearthly roar both began to 
slacken, and Dorothy Sanford looked over her 
shoulder. 

“Do you like it?” she asked. 

“Well,” answered Besant, “it’s novel.” 

The girl laughed. “To tell the truth,” she con¬ 
fessed, “I was just showing off. I had no business 
to shake the boat up in that manner. Now I’ll 
let you enjoy it. Come up here and sit beside 
me.” 

The junction of these two sentences was 
apparently accidental, and Besant took it as such. 
He obeyed the second command, but the question 
of enjoyment was still a matter of taste. The 
boat, to be sure, was not going now at such a 
trembling, arrow-like speed, but, once the end of 
the headland had been passed, the swell of the 
sea became rather alarming. The girl seemed to 
be increasingly amused at her companion’s 
obvious anxiety. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


179 


“Mr. Besant,” she said, “for a man who lives all 
the year on the edge of the ocean it strikes me 
that you are not much of a sailor.” 

“For that matter,” retorted Besant, “you live on 
the edge of the Shore Line Railroad, but that 
doesn’t necessarily mean that you’d be at home 
on a locomotive.” 

“Score for you!” exclaimed the girl. “I cer¬ 
tainly wouldn’t. And, to tell the truth, I don’t like 
the look of this sea any too much, myself. Do 
you see that island?” 

She pointed ahead to a bit of land which had 
been only a dot from the shore, but now was 
beginning to assume quite sizable proportions. 

“That,” continued Miss Sanford, “is Brickling’s 
Island, one of the many where Captain Kidd or 
Blackbeard or some one is supposed to have 
hidden his treasure. Rather than go out to sea 
any farther, I propose that we go ashore there and 
eat the sumptuous lunch which I have provided 
in that basket.” 

Besant looked away from her and at the island 
in some embarrassment. Agreeable as it might 
have been in other circumstances, the idea of 
staying out for lunch was not at all one with which 
he had signed for this cruise. Indeed, although 
he had noted and wondered about the basket, this 
was the first suggestion that Besant had heard 
of any such proposal. In view of his compact 
with Damon Crewe, he was now more anxious 
than ever to make the expedition as short as 
possible. Still, at the same time, half an hour on 




180 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


the island might be better than being shipwrecked 
out in the Atlantic. Apparently, one or the other 
was his daring neighbor’s only alternative. By 
way of suggesting a parley, he asked: 

“Can you make a landing?” 

“You can if you’re careful,” replied the girl. “I 
did it the other day with Cynthia and Frank 
Serrano. He’s not even so good a sailor as you are. 
All he does is crouch in the stern and howl for me 
to be careful.” 

Besant said no more—he didn’t know what he 
could say—and ahead of them the island con¬ 
tinued to grow larger and more distinct—a little 
hillock of brown, barren ground and rocky shore 
without a sign of a tree or a building. As the 
boat came nearer, some gulls rose up and began 
to circle with* interest. 

Apparently, moreover, Dorothy Sanford had 
been heightening, from sheer amusement, the 
difficulties of the situation. As they came nearer 
a very neat little bay opened out before them, 
with no more surf than there was in Besant’s own 
little harbor at Manhasset. Miss Sanford idled 
the engine and allowed the boat to slide along 
with its own decreasing momentum. 

“Now you get up there at the bow,” she com¬ 
manded, “and take that boathook. Your only 
job will be to keep it from hitting those rocks too 
violently.” 

This did not seem a very difficult feat, and 
Besant rather glowed at the skill with which he 
finally accomplished it. The bow painter in his 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


181 


hand, he leaped to the rocks and moored one end 
of the boat in deep water while with her usual 
deftness and seamanship, his companion anchored 
the stem, then lowered several canvas buffers 
over the side as an extra precaution. 

“There!” she exclaimed. “That ’ll be all right 
so long as we stay near by to keep an eye on her.” 

With the same brisk deftness the girl hovered 
for a moment or two over the engine, performing 
one of the many operations which were all Greek 
to Besant. This done, she tossed the basket ashore 
and lightly followed. 

“Well, here we are,” she said. “Now how about 
luncheon?” 

With this task, fortunately, Besant could be of 
more service. A short tour of exploration proved 
that the summit of the little island was much too 
windy for comfort. After trying and rejecting 
two or three other picturesque spots they 
returned to the sheltered warmth of a smooth 
mound of turf just above the spot where the boat 
was moored. In three or four minutes more the 
hostess’s promise had been completely fulfilled— 
a really sumptuous lunch had been produced 
from the basket and spread invitingly on a series 
of paper napkins. 

The edge of his appetite satisfied, Besant 
lighted his pipe and stretched himself at full 
length, luxuriously. Just faintly outlined on the 
distant mainland he could see the gray dots and 
red roofs which denoted the various buildings of 
the Crewe estate. Between them and the island 




182 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


extended at least six miles of blue, sparkling 
water. 

For a moment Dorothy Sanford watched him 
with increasing amusement. 

“You like it?” she suggested, innocently. 

“Oh, it’s bully!” answered Besant. “It’s just 
my idea of existence.” 

The girl’s eyes twinkled. “I’m very glad of 
that,” she answered, demurely, “because it’s the 
same existence that you’re going to lead until mid¬ 
night, to-night.” 

Besant sat up with a start. “What do you 
mean?” he demanded. 

The girl nodded in mischievous reaffirmation. 
“You and I,” she repeated, “are going to remain 
on this island until midnight, to-night.” 

“But why?” gasped Besant. 

“Why?” repeated the girl. “You know well 
enough. Or, if you don’t know, you’re going to 
know now. Cynthia Crewe and Frank Serrano 
are going to be married to-night. They would 
have been last night if Connie hadn’t blundered 
into the plan and spoiled it. My car was all ready 
for them outside the walls and it will be all ready 
again this evening. The really delicious part is 
that your own precious Tim is going to drive them. 
At least he’s going to drive them as far as Man- 
hasset. Frank Serrano’s own man would have 
done it last night, but he had to fall off the wall 
and get a sprained ankle. Therefore we had to 
find the most likely substitute. So I put it up to 
Tim while I was waiting for you this morning. 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


183 


Tim is really a much better sport than you are. 
He leaped at the plan, the minute I proposed it.” 

Besant had already jumped to his feet. “Miss 
Sanford,” he exclaimed, “this is really nonsense! 
I’ve got to get back! I simply must!” 

The girl, however, remained placidly seated by 
the paper napkins. 

“Sit down,” she said. “You might as well enjoy 
yourself while you are here. You can’t do any¬ 
thing about it.” 

“I can’t run the boat,” agreed Besant, “but if 
necessary I can compel you to do it.” 

Such threats were not in the least disturbing to 
Dorothy Sanford. “Oh no, you can’t!” she insisted, 
quietly. “To be sure, you might try to use force, 

but if you do that-” She held up a tiny bit of 

nickeled metal. “Here is the main switch to the 
whole ignition system. The boat can’t run with¬ 
out it. If you really get too insistent, all I shall 
do will simply be to toss this into the ocean ” 






Chapter XXXIV 

F OR a moment the girl sat idly tossing the bit 
of glistening metal in the palm of her hand. 
She glanced toward the water which swished and 
curled at the foot of the rocks. 

“Perhaps,” she suggested, mischievously, “it 
might be just as well to throw this in at once. That 
would end the discussion for good and all.” 

Obeying her previous command, Besant sat 
down rather weakly. “Did you think,” he asked, 
“that I would use force?” 

His captor laughed. “I didn’t really think so,” 
she confessed. “I merely hoped that you would. 
I have always wondered how it would seem to be 
on a desert island alone with a caveman—espe¬ 
cially one I was sure I could handle.” 

“And you think you can handle me?” asked 
Besant. 

“Oh, goodness! yes!” replied his companion. 
“You’re really a rather dear and helpless old thing. 
I knew that the first time I saw you. ‘He’s mine,’ 
I said to myself, ‘to have and to tease—the new 
little boy next door.’ No, Royal, old grump, you 
may be quick in your wits and amusing to have 
around, but it if came down to primitive things, 
I wouldn’t have the least fear in the world. If we 
really were shipwrecked on a desert island, I know 
that it would be I who would gather the firewood 
and capture wild goats.” 

184 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


185 


“Suppose I decide to swim?” suggested Besant. 

His gaoler looked thoughtfully toward the six 
or seven miles of blue water which lay between 
them and the mainland. 

“I kne\V you’d say that,” she answered. “That’s 
the first thing that Lionheart always does—in the 
movies. But in the first place, you couldn’t—not 
in your clothes. And as for starting without them 
—well, really, Boyal, it just isn’t done.” 

Besant smiled rather grimly. “As the afternoon 
drags on,” he suggested, “I may decide that getting 
back is more important than strict proprieties.” 

The girl immediately assumed a briskness to 
match his own. “Oh, very well, then,” she an¬ 
swered. “In that case I suppose I shall just have 
to chase you and bring you back. Even you can’t 
suppose that you can swim faster than the motor 
boat. Go ahead and try it if you want. But you 
must see how ridiculous it is going to make you 
—the hero out in the water, dodging hither and 
yon—the heroine chasing him frantically with a 
boathook and making a swat at him every time his 
head appears above the waves.” 

“I have always heard,” retorted Besant, “that 
when the hero is captured by a pirate chief and 
held prisoner on an island, the pirate chief always 
gloats and tortures him first, but I didn’t suppose 
you would do it.” 

“It’s your own fault,” replied Dorothy, promptly. 
“Sit still and behave yourself and I’ll act like an 
angel—sing to you, if you wish—perhaps even 
let you hold my hand, toward sundown.” 




186 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“At other times-” laughed Besant; but Doro¬ 

thy interrupted him. 

“Ah—other times! Other times!” she mocked. 
“What, in Heaven’s name, do you want? I could 
think for hours and, from the man’s point of view, 
I couldn’t imagine a more ideal situation. You 
don’t think it is everybody I would consent to 
kidnap, do you?” 

“Look here!” demanded Besant, suddenly. 
“Suppose I had kidnapped you and held you as 
a prisoner on a lonely island. And suppose that I 
should calmly fold my arms and begin to say, 
‘Ah-ha! Ah-ha!’ What would you do about it?” 

“Oh, I’d cry,” admitted his captor, frankly, “and 
then you’d simply have to take me back. That’s 
the ghastly unfairness of it—the double standard 
of island morality. Still,” she meditated, “if you 
were the proper man. I’d probably stop after a 
minute, gurgle, and say, ‘Alone at last!’” 

Besant was obliged to grin in spite of himself. 
Less and less was it conceivable to him that his 
little neighbor could be serious in her intentions. 

“But hasn’t it occurred to you,” he suggested, 
“that if we are gone so very long, some one is 
going to get anxious about us and come out looking 
for us in a boat? If they do I shall simply cast 
propriety to the winds and take off whatever gar¬ 
ment is largest and whitest, and run it up on a 
stick.” 

“I take it you speak of your shirt,” commented 
Dorothy. “Even so you don’t frighten me in the 
least. For no one will come. Every detail has 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


187 


been thought out with the most fiendish cunning. 
I told my good friend Tibbals, at the boathouse, 
that we were simply going up to Rock Beach for 
luncheon and supper—and told him in such a coy, 
blushing way that he will keep our secret like a 
clam. He’s quite convinced that, so far as I am 
concerned, you are the lucky party. I told him 
that if the sea got at all rough we would leave the 
boat at Black Point and come back by motor. 
Instead of which”—she waved her hand—“the sea 
is steadily getting milder and milder. There ’ll be 
a flat calm by sunset. He ’ll never worry. And 
nobody else knows anything about it. So there 
we are. Next?” 

“As a matter of fact,” answered Besant, “some¬ 
body else does know about it, some one who will 
be very anxious indeed if I don’t appear by dinner 
time.” 

“Who?” demanded the girl. 

“Mr. Crewe, himself,” answered Besant. “He 
knew that I was going, and going with you.” 




Chapter XXXV 

O VER the girl, as over Besant himself, the 
mention of the name threw immediately a 
more somber silence. Instantly Besant saw that 
the time had come to center the matter on a 
more common-sense basis. 

“Miss Sanford,” he said, “I don’t know how far 
you really mean to carry this ridiculous game, but, 
seriously, I must get back and see Mr. Crewe. 
I have made him a promise.” 

The girl nodded. Her frivolous air had disap¬ 
peared as completely as his own. “Perhaps you 
have,” she replied, “but I also have made a 
promise. Don’t think that, because I am willing 
to joke about it, I am not in the most utter 
earnest.” 

“But do you realize,” persisted Besant, “that Mr. 
Crewe is a very sick man?” 

The girl looked thoughtfully down at the rocks 
on the shore. 

“Yes,” she answered at last. “I have considered 
all that, and Cynthia has considered it. That is the 
very problem that she has been fighting for 
months. If it hadn’t been for her father’s health, 
she and Frank would have run away long before 
this. As it is, every day that she puts it off only 
makes it the harder. If he—if anything should 
happen to Mr. Crewe, it would make it almost 
188 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


189 


impossible. It would be doubly hard for Cynthia 
to go against his wishes after that.” 

In the words, as she said them, there was an air 
of finality, of complete solemnity which had been 
really lacking before, and, mistaken, infantile as 
her sentiments might be, nevertheless by her and 
by Cynthia Crewe they had apparently been con¬ 
ceived in deadly earnest. Besant began to realize 
that if this situation, even now, appeared entirely 
grotesque, yet by reason of the girl’s childish and 
stubborn obstinacy it might become extremely 
tragic—to the anxious and lonely old father of 
Cynthia Crewe, if to nobody else. 

For moments the two sat in a curious silence, 
the girl lost in some thoughts of her own, Besant 
still vaguely attempting, in his own mind, to bridge 
the gap between the absurd and the real. In the 
mind of each, presumably, thought passed after 
thought, yet nothing broke into their meditations 
save the faint stir of the thin, dry grass and the 
clock-like lap of the waves. As the interval 
threatened to become unendurable, Dorothy San¬ 
ford looked toward Besant in a tentative hesitat¬ 
ing way. 

“You don’t seem to be very sociable,” she sug¬ 
gested, weakly. 

“How can I be?” answered Besant, but within 
him began to stir the first faint ray of hope. In 
the girl’s voice there had been a note which was 
unmistakably wavering. Silence more than any¬ 
thing else had seemed to threaten control of her 
nerves. Nevertheless, for lack of anything better, 




190 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


it was to silence that both returned. It continued 
with spasmodic interruptions for a long, long time. 
A slow realization that the afternoon sun was 
beating squarely in his eyes made Besant look at 
his watch. To his amazement, and somewhat to 
his alarm, he found that it was twenty minutes past 
three. 

“Miss Sanford-” he began. 

But the girl held up her hand. “There is one 
thing,” she interrupted. “Please do drop that 
awful ‘Miss Sanford.’ We may get very angry at 
each other before we are through but we needn’t 
make it like a scene in a drawing-room tragedy. 
As long as you can call me anything, call me 
‘Dorothy,’ and we will let it go at that.” 

Inwardly Besant smiled again, for the testiness 
in the girl’s tone was now unmistakable. Nearer 
perhaps than she knew herself she was to the 
breaking point. But at the same time there swept 
over Besant a wave of admiration. The poor child 
was at heart so completely brave in her Quixotic 
determination. For all her jaunty assurance, it 
must have been no little task for her to face this 
test of wills on a lonely island with a man whom, 
after all, she hardly knew. With all the powers 
within his command Besant wished to keep that 
test from reaching any actual issue. In a way that 
he intended to be frank and reassuring he at¬ 
tempted to bring his own words to a friendly and 
common-sense level. 

“Won’t you please listen a moment?” he begged. 
He tried again to take up his own story from 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


191 


the beginning. “I am not here,” he urged, “to 
work against Cynthia Crewe, as you all seem to 
think. In a general way, to be sure, you have 
already guessed why I came up here to Legget’s 
Harbor-” 

For the girl, however, things had long since 
gone beyond that. “Oh, never mind why you 
came,” she burst out. “You’re here now and 
Cynthia’s going to be married. What more is there 
to say about it?” 

“Now please,” begged Besant. “I was making 
every effort to put it before you tactfully.” 

“Tactfully! Tactfully!” echoed his companion 
and more and more did she continue to show that 
her apparent command had, in reality, only cov¬ 
ered an appalling concentration of sheer nervous 
force. Once she had begun to release her grip, her 
nerves gave every sign that at any moment they 
might tumble headlong. If Besant did not take 
care he would soon have something far worse than 
mere romantic mischief with which to deal—in 
short, a young woman in the blind, unreasoning 
obstinacy of hysteria. 

“Well—wisely,” he corrected his previous state¬ 
ment. “I am trying to put it before you sensibly.” 

As if drawing herself into one final, all-inclusive 
statement, the girl made a single broad sweep 
with her hand. “Wisely—sensibly—tactfully!” 
she repeated. “Don’t you realize that that has 
been the whole trouble for over a year—that words 
like that have been wearing down Cynthia Crewe 
until they have forced her into what she is doing 





192 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


now? ‘Be cautious’—‘Go slowly’—‘Consider the 
rest of us.’ Her father, her mother, her friends 
and that idiot, Arthur Cramp, have all been 
preaching nothing but that since she first an¬ 
nounced that she wished to marry. If you were 
really in love would you listen long to it, yourself? 
I’m hanged if 1 would. ‘Be cautious’—‘Go slowly.’ 
And still they did nothing to help her. Just 
repeated those same things over and over. Then 
you came up here and forced the issue. If it had 
come to the point where even outsiders had been 
dragged in to spy on her, then Cynthia simply 
had to take matters into her own hands. And I 
for one am blame glad to help her!” 

Defiantly the girl turned away and stared out at 
the sea, but, in all conscience, Besant could not 
let the matter rest at that point. Over and over 
in his own mind he turned the amazing sentences 
which Cynthia’s father had spoken so gently on 
the day before. Besant could almost repeat them 
verbatim. 

“Understand, Mr. Besant,” the old gentleman had 
said, “that while I am determined that my daugh¬ 
ter shall not be led into a disastrous marriage, yet 
at the same time I am not going to kill the one real 
love of her live. She doesn’t know that. I couldn’t 
afford to let her know it—just yet. Nevertheless, 
it is true. If this Serrano is the real thing, she can 
marry him and God bless her. No one else has 
ever meant so much to her and probably no one 
else ever will.” 

Would he, Besant wondered, be justified in re- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


193 


peating that frank, confidential promise to this 
honest but obstinate little Nerissa? And would 
it do any good if he should? Would she not simply 
regard it as merely one more of the delaying and 
unconvincing subterfuges which for over a year 
had kept her friend from the man she loved? 
Cautiously, Besant tried to approach the matter in 
a roundabout way. 

‘*Miss Sanford,” he began, then corrected it— 
“Dorothy-” 

The girl neither answered nor turned, but, in a 
growing obstinacy as dogged as her own, Besant 
kept quietly on. 

“Dorothy,” he repeated, “I am certain that your 
real interest in all this matter-” 

The girl turned sharply. “Oh, please don’t talk 
like a lawyer,” she commanded. “In fact, don’t 
talk at all.” 

“Listen or not, just as you please,” replied 
Besant. “I suppose that it is really the happiness 
of Cynthia Crewe that concerns you, not that of 
Ruiz Serrano.” 

“Naturally,” snapped the girl. 

“Well, then,” argued Besant, “has it ever 
occurred to you that possibly all of those who are 
urging her to go slowly may really have some 
reason? Do you yourself know as much about 
Serrano as you might? Isn’t it possible that there 
may really he some reason why she should not 
marry him—at least just yet?” 

Again the girl made a single gesture of sweeping 
impatience. “Oh, those old stories again!” she 





194 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


exclaimed. “I shouldn’t think that even you would 
have any patience with them. Can’t you tell what 
a man really is, simply by looking at him and 
talking to him?” 

“Yes, usually,” agreed Besant, “but if there is 
nothing against Serrano, why not wait until it is 
all cleared up?” 

“Because poor Cynthia has already waited and 
waited,” repeated his companion, blindly, “and 
nobody has yet said anything definite against him 
—or tried to clear up what has been said. Just 
rumors, rumors, rumors. Cynthia knows all that 
there is to know about his past life. Her father 
and mother might think it shameful, but Cynthia 
doesn’t.” 

Besant’s eyes opened slightly at this unexpected 
detail. “Has she told you what it is?” he asked. 

“No, she hasn’t,” answered the girl, “and I 
wouldn’t have any respect for her if she did. It’s 
her secret and his, not mine.” 




Chapter XXXVI 


GAIN Besant lapsed into a futile silence. 



l \ Minutes passed, then quarter hours. Once or 
twice his companion shifted her position nervously, 
but still remained looking steadfastly over the 
harbor. Furtively Besant looked at his watch and 
found that the long minute hand had already crept 
perilously beyond four o’clock. The afternoon sun 
was beating, hot and straight, from over the main¬ 
land. From sheer lapse of time, if from nothing 
else, the situation was getting serious. Apparently 
Dorothy Sanford intended to hold on until the 
very last minute of her romantic pledge. 

Gradually all the plans which he had proposed 
in broad humor began to review themselves more 
seriously in Besant’s mind. He even considered 
the idea of plunging into the water and trying to 
swim. Assuredly his companion would not let 
him go very far without assistance, but even then 
he would only end in greater absurdity a situation 
which was already absurd enough. 

Another and better idea came into his delibera¬ 
tions. Would the little madcap consent to go back 
herself to the mainland and leave him as a hostage 
alone on the island? The complete unexpected¬ 
ness of that idea might appeal to her. If she would 
consent, Besant had a plan so entirely bold that 
he almost felt that it might succeed. He could 
send a note—not to old Mr. Crewe, not to Cynthia, 


195 




196 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


but to Ruiz Serrano himself. Whatever might be 
the facts to which Dorothy had just made refer¬ 
ence, Besant still had at heart a respect for Serrano 
as genuine as her own. The talk on the previous 
evening had quite opened the way. Besant could 
simply put the other man on his honor with some 
sort of chivalric bargain, ask him to defer his 
plans until he, himself, returned, and then talk it 
out—or fight it out—as man to man. 

Yet even this would not really accomplish the 
purpose. For it was not to Serrano or even to 
Cynthia Crewe that Besant was actually pledged. 
His solemn promise had been given to the sick 
man waiting anxiously in his room. It was not 
Besant’s absent assistance that was most necessary 
to old Damon Crewe at this hour, but the 
reassurance of his actual, physical presence. 

Quietly Besant rose to his feet. “Well, Miss San¬ 
ford,” he announced, “we’re going back now.” 

The girl looked up at him with an air which she 
meant to be calmly defiant, but which in reality 
was distinctly apprehensive. 

“How are we going back?” she demanded. 

“By the boat, of course,” replied Besant. “I am 
sorry but you will have to run it.” 

Instinctively the girl’s hand strayed over the 
shining ignition switch which lay on the turf at 
her side. Besant paid no attention to the move¬ 
ment, but, for the last time, attempted persuasion. 

“Miss Sanford,” he said, “I am completely in 
earnest. I ask you to come down and start the 
boat.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


197 


The girl did not move. “I, too, am in earnest” 
she said. “I have given my word. I don’t break 
a promise.” 

“But,” replied Besant, “I have made a more im¬ 
portant promise to Mr. Crewe. One or the other 
will have to be broken.” 

“I shan’t go,” exclaimed the girl, curtly. 

Royal Besant took two steps toward her and 
she lifted the little switch of the motor boat. Her 
eyes were flashing as she looked up. 

“Take care,” she commanded. “I meant what 
I said. Come one step nearer and I will throw 
this into the water.” 

Besant made no move to stop her. “You seem 
to have forgotten,” he said, “that the boat also has 
oars. It would be a hard job, I know, to paddle 
her in, but I think we could do it. You will have 
to help, anyway, so you had better keep the 
switch.” 

The girl lowered her hand, but she still remained 
seated resolutely on the ground. Quietly Besant 
stepped forward until he was towering above her. 
The girl drew back in genuine alarm. 

“What”—she gasped—“what are you going 
to do?” 

“I am going to request for one last time,” an¬ 
swered Besant, “that you get up and come with me 
of your own accord. If you won’t, I am going to 
take your own suggestion and use force.” 

As stolidly as ever the girl remained seated, her 
eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Will you come?” asked Besant. 




198 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


There was no reply, and he asked again. 

“Will you come?” 

“No!” blurted the girl. “Absolutely no!” 

Instantly Besant stepped forward, grasped her 
arms and, like a flash, lifted her to her feet. For a 
moment he had a glimpse of a horrified, upturned 
face, looking at him in amazed unbelief. Even 
he had been unprepared for the slightness of her 
weight, for the childlike thinness of the arms that 
he grasped. Even in that grotesque moment there 
came to him again Tim’s apt remark, “Yellow hair, 
about half my size, and always laughing.” 

But Dorothy Sanford was certainly not laughing 
now. With wide, outraged eyes she stood for a 
moment, slightly swaying on uncertain feet, hardly 
able to realize what had happened. Then in 
sudden blind fury she turned at Besant and struck 
him with all her force in the face. 

“You outrageous brute!” she cried, with all the 
vindictiveness of the blow itself. 

The blow had hurt. It had hurt like a whiplash. 
Besant turned a fiery red, but he did not move. He 
put both hands behind him and merely waited. 

Again the girl half raised her hand, then weakly 
let it fall, but the two remained standing, face to 
face, and staring into each other’s eyes. Besant 
could feel himself growing a little faint with a 
half-realized horror. The girl was trembling with 
rage and shame. Then abruptly, rather absurdly, 
she sank down again and crouched on the ground. 
Besant waited a moment, then again stepped for- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


199 


ward and gently grasped her by the arms. The 
girl’s rage returned in all its fury. 

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me!” 
she cried. But with the. same determination 
Besant lifted her up. 

This time she refused to stand on her own feet, 
letting her body sag with all her weight, more 
grotesquely than ever like a sulky child. For 
two or three seconds Besant supported her, then, 
lowering his left hand, he lifted her clear in his 
arms. Her own arms pinioned by his, her strug¬ 
gles and spasmodic turns were as ineffective as 
those of a sparrow. She tried first to turn her face 
away from him, then turned it toward him to 
hide it. The only place was his shoulder. 

Still carrying her, clasped tightly in his arms, 
Besant took two or three steps toward the landing. 
Then suddenly he stopped, looked over the harbor 
a moment, and gently put her down. 

“I am very sorry,” he announced, “that that had 
to happen. It seems it was quite unnecessary. 
Here comes another boat!” 

If she heard him, the girl made no sign. Sho 
merely turned on the grass at full length and, 
burying her face in her arms, began to sob con¬ 
vulsively. Besant waited as long as he dared, then 
spoke again. 

“I am very sorry,” he repeated, “but I really 
think that you had better go back with me now. 
If you don’t wish to go, I had better begin at once 
to signal that boat.” 

And, curiously, this was the only purely theatric 




200 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


pose of the whole situation, for Besant had no 
necessity to signal the other boat. Of its own 
accord it was already coming straight toward the 
island. As it began to grow more and more dis¬ 
tinct, Dorothy Sanford herself sat up and moodily 
watched it. Then suddenly, as if nothing had 
happened, she seemed in one move to dismiss all 
her anger against Besant. 

“That abominable Connie!” was all she 
exclaimed. 




Chapter XXXVII 

T HAT the skipper and sole occupant of the 
approaching boat was indeed Connie Crewe, 
the passing of three or four minutes left no 
further doubt. Nor could there be any question 
that the island harbor was her deliberate destina¬ 
tion. With the same abstracted, almost insolent 
air with which she did everything else, she was 
steering idly toward the spot where their own boat 
was moored. Although she handled it with perfect 
nonchalance, her own craft was nothing like the 
long, white racer in which Dorothy Sanford and 
Besant had left the mainland. It was a humble, 
slow launch of broad beam and old-fashioned 
type, and yet, as he watched it, Besant began to 
realize how typical the craft was of Connie. As in 
the case of her clothes, her gardens, her very 
manners, he felt that Connie Crewe would 
have held a secret contempt for anything more 
presentable. 

At Besant’s own feet Dorothy had begun to 
gather hastily the odds and ends of their luncheon 
service. Rather diffidently, Besant himself stooped 
to help her. His companion said nothing, rigidly 
avoiding meeting his gaze. Once, when he handed 
her something, she muttered a stiff, formal, “Thank 
you.” Yet even Besant could feel how oddly the 
coming of a third person had drawn Dorothy and 
himself back into a single community of feeling. 
201 




202 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


It was rather a thrilling thing for him to realize 
—“fight among ourselves as much as we please, 
but for outsiders keep up a solid front.” 

Unintentionally Dorothy looked up and caught 
his eye. Instantly her own expression changed to 
one of alarm. 

“Good gracious!” she whispered. “Look at your 
face! For Heaven’s sake, do clear it off!” 

Bewildered, Besant put his hand to his cheek 
and drew it away. His fingers were streaked with 
red. At the same time his companion was looking, 
half in repentance, half in amusement, at her own 
little palm. 

“It must have been my rings,” she whispered. 
“Here! Quick! Do mop it off. Whatever you do, 
Connie mustn’t see that.” 

Ineffectually, she reached for the first thing at 
hand. It was one of the paper napkins, but before 
Besant could use it she snatched it away from him 
and substituted her own tiny handkerchief. 
Reluctantly, Besant touched it to his cheek, and as 
the girl watched him with a complete and maternal 
solicitude, she must have seen an odd expression 
come into his eyes. 

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?” 

Besant hesitated for a moment, then crumpled 
the little handkerchief in his hand. He turned 
away. “Oh, nothing!” he said. 

The words, although sincerely meant, seemed 
even to Besant rather ineffective. Frantically 
eager, now, to make peace, he added: “May I keep 
this? As a flag of truce?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


203 


Dorothy looked at the ruined handkerchief and 
laughed. “In the condition in which it is now,” 
she answered, “I guess you’ll have to.” Then as 
if, for her part, she were not yet willing to let good 
nature go too far, she added in a stiffer tone, “But 
if that’s all you want, wait until we get to shore 
and I’ll give you a clean one.” 




Chapter XXXVIII 

T HE delay, at any rate, had been sufficient for 
Connie to reach the foot of the rocks and 
moor her own boat. For this Besant was not un¬ 
thankful, for he knew that if he had gone down 
to offer his own services, they would, as likely as 
not, have been contemptuously refused. Yet in 
spite of himself he was grudgingly forced to ad¬ 
mire the perfectly natural, unembarrassed way in 
which Connie joined them on the strip of turf 
above the rocks. It could not have been an easy 
situation even for her. If, moreover, as she looked 
first at Dorothy and then at Besant, she had any 
realization that something extraordinary had 
occurred, she gave not the faintest sign of it, not 
even her usual glint of lurking, sardonic amuse¬ 
ment. Instead, she looked down at the -remains 
of the luncheon. 

“Deviled eggs, paper napkins, and ants,” was 
her opening remark. 

“There aren’t any ants, at least,” retorted Doro¬ 
thy, hotly. “That’s one reason why we came to 
the island.” 

“Pardon me, flies,” persisted Connie. “They’re 
just as bad.” 

The manner in which neither young woman 
made the slightest attempt to conceal her hostility 
for the other was distinctly alarming to Besant, 
even after the scene through which he himself 
204 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


205 


had just passed. Connie, however, put him at 
ease on that score by stating at once the reason 
for her sudden appearance. 

“Mr. Besant,” she said, in her usual drawl, “I 
am sorry, but father would like to see you as soon 
as possible. He began to get anxious about you 
and wanted some one to look you up.” 

“Thank you very much,” replied Besant, a little 
stiffly. “We were just starting back when you 
came.” 

But something in Connie’s attitude, possibly 
something in her tone, had made him look at her 
again. Dorothy Sanford had stooped to her knees 
to put the last of the forks and spoons in the picnic 
basket, and, as Besant glanced over her bowed 
head at Connie, he saw the latter’s eyes looking 
at him in a quick, intense way that, without any 
question, was meant to convey some unspoken 
message. 

“Then you’ll be along soon?” repeated Connie. 
Even into her voice had crept a faint hint of a 
double meaning, and again her eyes were signaling 
very plainly. 

It was clear enough what she meant, and Besant* 
nodded to show that he understood. Old Mr. 
Crewe hadmever sent any such message or, if he 
had, it had not been the one which his daughter 
had repeated. All that Connie wished him to 
understand was that he was needed on the main¬ 
land—and needed at once. That much was per¬ 
fectly obvious, but, coming from that supercilious, 
unfriendly source, the effect was almost uncanny. 




206 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


It was, to Besant, quite as if he had received a 
friendly flash from the Sphinx. 

Dorothy Sanford rose from the picnic basket 
and, entirely unconscious of what had passed, 
entered into the conversation. 

“How did you know,” she demanded, “where we 
had gone?” 

Over Connie’s lips came her old, slow smile. 
“I watched you,” she answered, calmly. “Through 
father’s binoculars, to make it worse. Very poor 
taste, I know, but if you will start off with a noise 
like the battle of Jutland ... I quite expected any 
moment to see your propeller shaft come shooting 
clear through the stern.” 

Dorothy flushed, but to this bald confession she 
evidently considered that silence would be the 
most killing reply. Besant took the basket from 
her hand and all three started for the landing, 
both young women observing what Serrano would 
probably have called the chill punctilio of the 
fray. To make matters more unpleasant, they 
found, at the foot of the rocks, that Connie’s old 
launch had been so carelessly moored that it was 
rubbing steadily against the spotless bow of the 
finer craft. 

Dorothy Sanford muttered over her shoulder to 
Besant, “Now /’ll be blamed for that. Just look 
at that paint.” 

If Connie heard this remark she paid no atten¬ 
tion, but went at once to the mooring lines of 
her own boat. Never in his life had Besant seen 
two young women so close to a stand-up fight, and 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


207 


with all his heart be began to long for the 
comparative peace of the open sea. Neverthe¬ 
less, as his own companion showed no signs of 
doing it, he felt obliged to offer Connie the obvious 
invitation. 

“Can’t we give you a tow?” he suggested. “I’d 
offer to run the extra boat, but I don’t know how 
to do it.” 

For answer Connie looked back at him with cool 
amusement, but at the same time the faintest trace 
of that same warning signal came into her eyes. 
This time, unhappily, the other girl saw the look 
between them, but Connie, at least, cared nothing 
for that. 

“Oh no, thank you!” she answered with a sweet¬ 
ness that was positively saccharine. “I journey 
alone. My life is that of the hermit thrush.” 

From the cockpit of their own boat Besant saw 
Dorothy Sanford look up sharply, on the verge of 
some quick retort. Whatever it might have been, 
she apparently thought better of it, and almost 
immediately both engines started with rival roars. 
Ten rods outside the little harbor the slower craft 
was straightway left far behind, but once or twice 
Besant, looking over his shoulder, saw it lurking 
there between them and the island in a peculiarly 
mocking way, like some irritating little skirmisher 
gleefully watching a larger enemy’s ignominious 
retreat. 

If Dorothy Sanford shared his phantasy she 
gave no sign of it, in fact did not once look around. 
Straight as a dragon-fly she steered for the boat- 




208 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


house on the mainland, and the stiff silence with 
which she warned off all friendly advances was no 
more than Besant had the right to expect. At the 
same time he could not help wondering how much 
of it was due to the later episode and how much 
of it was the natural reaction from their own 
little affair. 

Only once did Dorothy give any inkling, and 
that was when they were already within easy hail 
of the landing. She turned abruptly, evidently 
expressing at once the sum of her thoughts. 

“Have you been lying to me?” she demanded. 

“Lying to you?” repeated Besant. “Not that I 
know of.” 

Just the same,” she retorted, “I’ll bet that you 
have. You told me that yesterday was the first 
time you ever saw Connie Crewe!” 




Chapter XXXIX 


T the boathouse Dorothy gruffly tossed the 



II bow line to the waiting Tibbals and immedi¬ 
ately walked away in a manner that was quite 
distressing to the friendly old boatman. Com¬ 
pletely hurt, he stared after the girl and then at 
Besant, but, while the latter could at least offer 
a friendly word, he could naturally give no 
explanation. 

Besant himself waited tactfully until Dorothy 
had disappeared in the main house, and then fol¬ 
lowed slowly to the terrace. As he approached, 
the butler and one of the footmen were clearing 
away the remnants of an afternoon tea which must 
have been very scantily attended. 

Besant looked at his watch. It was twenty 
minutes to six. His rescue or his escape, which¬ 
ever it was, had not been any too soon. Just 
how far the main situation had been changed, or 
would be changed, by the collapse of Dorothy 
Sanford’s part in the adventure, Besant had, of 
course, no way of knowing. He realized, more¬ 
over, that a very brief time now remained, before 
nightfall, in which to find out. 

His first step, of course, must be to get in touch 
with Mr. Crewe, and to this end he spoke to one 
of the men at the tea table. 

“Will you please go to Mr. Crewe’s room,” he 
asked, “and tell him that I have come back? 


209 




210 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Please ask him whether he wishes to see me now 
or later.” 

“Certainly, sir,” answered the man, and, putting 
down his tray, disappeared at once. He returned 
directly with very much the message which Besant 
had expected to receive. 

“Mr. Crewe says, ‘Thank you very much,’ sir. 
He says that it will not be at all necessary for you 
to see him until just before dinner, and not even 
then if you are going to be busy. Miss Cynthia 
is up there reading to him now.” 

The man went into the house with his tray, 
while Besant turned back toward the harbor, 
where Connie’s boat still lingered far out from 
land, sauntering along in a placid way that, even 
at that distance, quite suggested the character of 
its skipper. 

The servant’s report had answered for Besant 
two questions at once. It proved, first, that 
Cynthia Crewe was still in the house. It also 
indicated that Besant’s own suspicion had been 
quite correct—that old Mr. Crewe had not been 
in the least disturbed by his absence and that 
Connie’s little scouting trip to get him back from 
the island had been undertaken entirely on her 
own initiative. 

What in the world, then, had Connie meant by 
her message? There could, of course, be only one 
immediate way to find out—to go down to the 
landing and meet her when she came in, or else 
to remain within sight as she came up to the 
house. Natural caution voted slightly against both 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 1 


211 


of these plans, but natural tact voted much more. 
Even as briefly as he had been able to observe her, 
Besant knew that Connie was distinctly a person 
to be left alone. She would choose her own time 
and place when she wished to call for any further 
co-operation. 




Chapter XL 


T HERE was, happily, at least one other person 
at Legget’s Harbor of whom Besant stood in 
no such awe—his *own ingenuous Tim. Natural 
instinct as well as Tim’s own confessions suggested 
at once where the lanky sportsman could probably 
be found, and, leaving the terrace, Besant wan¬ 
dered down to the long stone stables at the north 
end of the grounds. Surely enough, Tim was there, 
just outside the doors, in company with two stable¬ 
men, gleefully shooting craps on a rubber blanket 
spread over a bale of hay. The two other men 
noted first the approaching figure and stiffened 
into a respectful silence which caused Tim himself 
to look around. Besant nodded his head and Tim 
immediately joined him. The two walked a dozen 
paces away. 

“Tim,” began his master, abruptly, “your plans 
for this evening have been called off.” 

Purely as a matter of habit, Tim straightened 
at once into a sort of aggressive defiance. “What 
do you mean—my plans?” he retorted. 

“I mean,” answered Besant, “that you had been 
asked to drive Miss Cynthia Crewe and Mr. Serrano 
to Manhasset this evening. There is nothing doing. 
You will not have to go.” 

Tim wilted immediately into a guilty grin. 
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did they get 
cold feet?” J 5 


212 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


213 


Tim pondered the matter in mild vexation. “I 
wish they’d told me two hours ago,” he said. 
“Leaving it until the last moment makes it kind of 
bad for me. I was looking forward to driving that 
little Fabre. And, besides, I took all the trouble to 
call off the rat fight, so I could go. Rexy was turn¬ 
ing out to be more of a fox than I thought. Seems 
he works better in the dark than he does in the day¬ 
light. We tried him again with the rat this morn¬ 
ing, with a blanket thrown over the box, and if we 
hadn’t stopped it right off we’d had to been looking 
around for another rat. We could have put on a 
real scrap to-night, after all. And then let Rexy 
meet the weasel in the finals. I didn’t give Rexy 
nothing to eat all day, so’s to get him into fighting 
trim. Rut when Miss Sanford asked me to drive 
for the bridal couple, I give him a whole half 
chicken I swiped from the cook. Now he wouldn’t 
put up his dukes to a mole.” 

“Yes, that’s too bad,” agreed Resant in complete 
solemnity, “but as it happens, I shall want you 
myself.” 

Long experience had taught Besant that the only 
sure way to enlist Tim’s entire co-operation was 
to make some direct appeal to his sense of 
importance. 

“Tim,” he began, “the truth is that Mr. Crewe is 
a little worried about certain things that are going 
on in his house.” 

Tim grinned. “He’d been more worried yet if 
he’d known how I was intending to drive that little 




214 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Fabre. An airoplane could have caught me, but 
nothing else could.” 

“No, Tim,” said Besant; “this is quite ‘another 
matter. To put it briefly, Mr. Crewe has begun 
to feel that a place like this isn’t safe without a 
watchman, some man with a good wise head and 
a whole lot of nerve.” 

The line of approach had been sublimely suc¬ 
cessful. Tim nodded sagely and spat through the 
side of his mouth. A minute more and he would 
have taken off his coat. 

“Well, that’s all right,” he answered. “The 
only trouble with a watchman is that he has to 
sit up all night.” 

Besant laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing as serious as 
that,” he said. “Mr. Crewe just wanted to know 
that there was such a man somewhere within call. 
You know, when you look at it, this is a pretty 
isolated spot.” 

Tim nodded again. “That’s what I thought, 
myself, last night when I was trying to get in the 
walls. Anyone who really wanted could take all 
the silver in the place and drive it away in a five- 
ton truck. Course there’s four or five men sleeping 
in the house, but—hell! That big fat butler, for 
instance. Give him a stick in the ribs and he’d 
die on the spot.” 

Tim broke off with a sudden inspiration of his 
own. “Say, Mr. Besant,” he demanded, “you ain’t 
got suspicions of nobody inside the house?” 

“No, no,” replied Besant, quickly. “I don’t even 
know that there’s anything wrong, but Mr. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


215 


Crewe has been sick for a very long time. Every 
now and then he gets extremely nervous.” 

“They do get that way,” agreed Tim, as if 
nervous patients came to him as a regular practice. 
“And what do you want me to do? You know I’ve 
got a gun in the pocket of the car.” 

“Then for Heaven’s sake let it stay there,” 
replied Besant. “No, Tim, the principal thing I 
want of you is to have you stay around where I 
can find you. No more trips to Manhasset until 
I tell you. Have you had your supper?” 

“All I want for a couple of hours or so,” an¬ 
swered Tim. “They calls it tea.” 

“Very well., then. Go up to my rooms in five or 
ten minutes and, if I am not there, wait until I 
come. Possibly you may sleep in the house to¬ 
night. If anyone should happen to come into my 
rooms and find you there, just stir around and act 
like a valet. Pretend to be busy brushing my coats 
or getting out my soiled clothes or something of 
that kind. Understand?” 

“I understand,” replied Tim, “I understand. 
Trust me for the wise guy.” 




Chapter XLI 


DDLY enough, Besant returned from his in- 



terview with Tim possessed by a cheery new 
confidence. A talk with his private ex-pugilist 
usually did inspire Besant in that manner. It was 
not wholly a question of Tim’s physical strength, 
but something really deeper. No thoughtful intel¬ 
lectual man like Besant can ever quite lose an 
instinctive faith in the steadying, cocksure quality 
which is second nature to a gamin. 

Besant re-entered the house as he had left it, 
by way of the terrace, and a quick glance showed 
him that Connie’s boat was ho longer in the harbor. 
Nor was Connie herself anywhere within sight. 
Wisely or unwisely, Besant had let slip that im¬ 
mediate chance for further information, and he 
went at once to his own rooms. Fifteen minutes 
would be ample time in which to dress for dinner, 
and a full half hour remained, beyond that, before 
his appointment with Damon Crewe. With his 
tweed golfing coat half off his shoulders, Besant 
began to debate on the shrewdness or folly of a 
certain very direct step which had been in his 
mind ever since he had left the island. Nothing, 
he decided, could at least be lost by the attempt, 
so, slipping his coat back on, he left his rooms and 
stepped quietly down the hall to a door which he 
had already identified as Serrano’s. He knocked, 
but for a moment there came no reply. Besant 


216 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


217 


repeated his knock, and after some further delay 
a muffled, distant voice answered. 

Besant opened the door and stepped into a 
sitting room much like his own, where the muffled 
and distant quality of the voice was immediately 
explained, for Serrano was standing at a dressing 
table at the far end of the suite, tying, with elab¬ 
orate pains, his evening cravat. His eyes were 
fixed with intense concentration on the mirror 
before him, while, clenched in his teeth and 
pointed up at one eye, was the longest and thinnest 
cigarette holder that Besant had ever seen. 

The young violinist did not look around until 
Besant had passed through the two intervening 
rooms and was standing six feet away. At that 
point Besant’s reflection must have come gradually 
into the mirror, for suddenly Serrano’s hands 
dropped to his sides and he turned like a flash, 
his face blank with amazement. At the same 
time the cigarette holder fell with a crash to the 
hard glass top of the dressing table and sparks 
flew in every direction. Serrano, however, paid 
no attention, merely stood and stared at Besant 
as if he were seeing an apparition. 

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “And where did you 
come from?” 

Besant, for his own part, returned the stare with 
an inward surprise hardly less than Serrano’s. It 
was several seconds before he could actually grasp 
the amazing truth—that Serrano had still supposed 
him to he a prisoner on the island. That simple 
idea had never occurred to him, and yet, appar- 




218 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


ently, that was the fact. Engrossed in her own 
humiliation, poor little Dorothy Sanford must have 
gone directly to her own room—and slammed the 
door. In the meantime, the gallant lover, in bliss¬ 
ful ignorance, had been going right on with his 
fond dreams for the midnight elopement. It was 
almost pathetic, if viewed in that light. 

Yet the explanation was simple enough, now 
that Besant had the wit to grasp it. Cynthia Crewe 
had been closeted with her father when Dorothy 
and he had returned. Dorothy could have had no 
opportunity to communicate with her friend, even 
if she had wished it. The first news to Cynthia 
must have been Besant’s own message, carried up 
by the servant. Besant could only imagine what 
must have been the unhappy girl’s emotions at 
first hearing the news of his escape at her father’s 
side and in that unexplained manner. It must have 
been torture for her to sit out the hour, trying 
calmly to read, but knowing in her own heart that 
all the plans for her intended elopement were now 
in the hands of what she must regard as the enemy. 
And still she had remained unable to communicate 
with her lover. Besant himself had done that 
before she could reach him. 

So far as Besant and Serrano were concerned, 
the situation was too ridiculous to continue long 
on the melodramatic plane. Buefully and tardily 
the violinist began to stamp out a few of the 
larger sparks which had already begun to smoke 
on the carpet. This done, he sank rather vaguely 
into a chair. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


219 


“What happened?” he asked. “I suppose it’s 
no use trying to conceal anything now. How did 
you get away?” 

Besant smiled. “I’m sorry,” he answered. “I 
simply had to shoot poor Dorothy and bury her on 
the highest part of the island. Then I swam six 
miles to the shore, my head in a sack and the 
handcuffs still on my wrists.” 

Serrano himself smiled faintly, but Besant 
relapsed at once to a serious tone. “No,” he ex¬ 
plained, “the truth was that another boat happened 
to come along at just the right moment. I had 
promised to be on shore—and so I came.” 

Serrano glanced up with a new anxiety. “You 
don’t mean to say,” he exclaimed, “that Dorothy 
is still out there?” 

“Oh no,” Besant reassured him. “She is safely 
in her room.” 

Serrano looked back at the carpet in unhappy 
thought. “And now,” he continued, “I suppose 
you have come here to tell me to pack my trunk.” 

Besant shook his head. “No,” he answered, “I 
have simply come here to talk.” 

To this overture the other man made little 
response. “I don’t see what use there is in talk¬ 
ing,” he answered. “If you don’t put me out of the 
house, Mr. Crewe will.” 

“Now wait a minute,” commanded Besant. 
“You’re putting a tone on this affair that I, at least, 
have never put on it. In the first place, Mr. Crewe 
knows nothing at all about what has happened. 
At least I don’t think he does.” 




220 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


The young violinist looked up with a sudden 
expression of wistful hope, a look that was almost 
boyish in its simplicity. However, it quickly extin¬ 
guished itself. 

“But he will know about it,” he answered. 

“And what if he does,” argued Besant. “It’s no 
crime to fall in love.” 

The other man shrugged. “Oh, isn’t it?” he 
answered, ironically. “It certainly is a crime when 
the girl is a girl like Cynthia and the man is merely 
a Spanish fiddler—a Wop.” 

“Oh don’t be an ass,” interrupted Besant. 

“I’m not being an ass,” replied the other. “I’m 
merely telling the truth.” 

Besant stopped abruptly, for he saw that along 
that line they could make no progress at all. When 
he began to speak again it was completely on 
another tack. 

“Serrano,” he said, “I’m going to tell you some¬ 
thing that it may be very foolish for me to tell. 
When I was first asked to look into this case I 
refused pointblank. I am going to tell you the 
reason—because I have been on the wrong side 
from the very start. I mean that all my own 
sympathies have been with your romance. Early 
in my own life I spent several very miserable, 
unhappy years because I faced a situation very 
much like your own. At that time I hoped to be 
an artist like yourself. To be a novelist was my 
ambition. So far, at least, I have never attained 
my own ambition in that line. You have. Other¬ 
wise the stories were the same. I was in love for 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


221 


years with a girl whose people thought her above 
me in every respect—wealth, social position, gen¬ 
eral inheritance. I was weak enough—or saint 
enough—to let them crowd me out. As matters 
have proved, perhaps they were right. That story 
is done. But the whole thing made five years of 
my life an unspeakable hell, and when I heard of 
your case I said to myself, ‘If I can help it, that 
thing is not going to happen now.’ ” 

The othet man looked partly up in a blurting, 
reluctant way. “That is very decent of you,” he 
said, “to tell me that, but if you have been through 
it you must know it isn’t any use.” 

“On the contrary,” said Besant, “the one thing 
I want is to keep you from making the very mis¬ 
takes that I made myself. Incessantly I did just 
what you are doing. I wanted everything to hap¬ 
pen immediately. I wanted to use the grand 
gesture, to stand continually on my own dignity 
and force at once some yes or no. 

“Now, Serrano,” he went on, “if you will only 
keep your head and use patience—not try to rush 
things in this back-hand, melodramatic manner, 
I don’t see any reason at all why, ultimately, you 
should not marry Miss Crewe. Listen, please. I 
want you to make me a promise.” 

The other man, however, merely shook his head 
in the same dogged way. “If you want me to 
promise,” he said, “not to marry Cynthia Crewe 
the first chance I get, I won’t make any such 
promise.” 

After his own frank confession and his own 




222 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


diplomatic efforts, the tone somewhat nettled 
Besant. To the sentiment itself he could take no 
exception, but Serrano’s persistent attitude seemed 
to throw their relations back to the point on which 
they had rested before. 

“Very well, then,” answered Besant, “I can’t do 
much more than I have done. Personally, I have 
told you frankly that my sympathies are with you, 
hut officially my duties lie on the other side. If 
you are determined to rush matters, I shall merely 
take steps to stop you.” 

The other man shrugged. “That is obvious.” 
As if, however, he began to realize his own un¬ 
gracious position, Serrano himself tried to make 
amends. “Mr. Besant,” he said, “I didn’t mean to 
be boorish, but you yourself must realize what I 
am feeling to-night. For six months, now, Cynthia 
and I have been at the very point of ending the 
agony—taking things into our own hands and 
being married at once. And every time something 
has come up at the very last moment to stop us— 
our own good will more often than not. We have 
never got any gratitude for it. They merely 
watched us more closely than ever. We have both 
decided that we have had enough of that. We are 
going to end it ourselves—no matter what happens 
—end it once and for all.” 

Again Serrano had taken a stand with which, 
in itself, Besant could only agree, but at the same 
time there still remained the one real purpose for 
which he had forced this call. To that one point 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


223 


nothing had, as yet, brought them nearer, and 
Besant saw no way but to plunge in headlong. 

“Serrano,” he said, “I have one more question to 
ask you. Is there anything in your history that 
you are not willing to have come to light?” 

At such a question it was only natural that the 
other man should look up with angry and flashing 
eyes. Nevertheless, when he answered, his words 
were as calm and as measured as Besant’s own. 

“In my past life, Mr. Besant, there is absolutely 
nothing of which I am ashamed and nothing which 
I have not already told Miss Crewe. If that answer 
is not sufficient, I am very sorry. I have nothing 
more to say.” 

Besant nodded. He glanced at his watch. 

“Sometime,” he said, “I think that we may come 
nearer to understanding each other. In the mean¬ 
time I am going to ask you to make me one very 
small promise.” 

Serrano looked at him curiously. “What is it?” 

“I am going to ask you,” said Besant, “to give me 
your word not to leave this house—I mean, of 
course, the walls of the Estate—before this same 
hour to-morrow night.” 

Serrano had risen from his chair, and in his 
manner was apparent even more regret for his 
own ill-humor. Nevertheless, he shook his head. 
“No, Mr. Besant,” he answered, “I can make no 
# promises. The time has gone by for that. And 
you forget that I am not alone in this matter. 
There is also Miss Crewe.” 

Besant glanced around the walls until he saw 




224 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


an electric button. “I am sorry, too,” he answered. 
“In that case you leave me only one thing to do. 
I shall have to send for my own man and post him 
right here in your rooms, with plain instructions 
to keep you in them.” 

Already Besant’s finger was on the button when 
Serrano held out his hand. 

“All right, Mr. Besant, I’ll promise.” 




Chapter XLII 

I T was with a very live sense of achievement that 
Besant went back to his own rooms, a genuine 
belief that, for twenty-four hours at least, he had 
insured some measure of calm for the troubled 
household. His chief hope now was that he could 
impart that same sense of security to old Mr. Crewe 
without, at the same time, giving too detailed a 
story of just what had happened. This interview 
Besant decided to postpone until after dressing, 
giving himself at least that length of time to formu¬ 
late his own report. 

In his own rooms, however, Besant was to find 
very little chance for meditation, for as he opened 
the door he was met by a whirlwind. Tim Hanni- 
gan had been sitting in grandeur in the big chintz 
chair with his feet on the sill of the open window. 
The instant the knob of the door was turned, Tim 
took one complete vault out of the chair, holding 
in one hand a clothes brush and in the other 
Besant’s dinner jacket. He began to flog the coat 
with all the vigor of a threshing mill. 

Besant, who had forgotten completely about his 
own orders, held up his hand, laughing. 

“Never mind, Tim, it’s only me.” 

It was some time before Tim would cease what 
he evidently regarded as exquisite comedy. “Per¬ 
haps it needs a good brushing, anyhow,” he 
replied. 


225 




226 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Assuming a very dainty, Miss-Nancy air, Tim 
began to pick imaginary long hairs from the 
sleeves of the jacket, rolling them carefully around 
his finger and snapping them in fancy toward the 
open window. 

“If you really want to help me, Tim,” suggested 
his master, “you might start a warm bath. I’m in 
a hurry. Then try to find me a dress shirt which 
isn’t frayed at the neckband.” 

If not called upon to do it too often, Tim occa¬ 
sionally enjoyed being a valet in fact as well as in 
title. With good-natured languor he started the 
bath, put studs in the shirt, and then stood around 
with the air of a bystander watching another man 
shoeing a horse. 

“Say, Mr. Besant,” he began, with one foot on 
the little stand which held his master’s kit bag, “I 
thought you told me that all that business was off 
for to-night!—that getaway by Miss Crewe and Mr. 
Serrano.” 

Besant looked up from the chair where he was 
unlacing his shoes. 

“It is off,” he affirmed. “What makes you think 
that it isn’t?” 

Tim grinned and winked with his usual air of 
having shrewd inside information. “Well,” he 
announced, “it may be off so far as you and me 
are concerned, but I’ve got some pretty wise dope 
that the others are going right on with their prep¬ 
arations. What did they think—that I couldn’t 
drive a Fabre as well as the Switzer?” 

Besant put down his shoes and leaned back in 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


227 


the chair. “What makes you believe that?” he 
demanded. 

Before replying, Tim turned and studied his 
favorite work of art, the little statue of Hercules 
in the niche in the wall. In an estimating way he 
placed his thumb nail on the plaster-of-Paris 
biceps. 

“Maybe they wouldn’t want me to tell you.” 

Without a word Besant stood up and continued 
undressing. Tim laughed and at once surrendered. 

“You see it was this way,” he confessed. “Just 
before I came up here, about ten minutes ago, I 
went into the garage to take a look at our own car. 
The other fellows are always shoving it around 
where I don’t want it. I thought I was all alone 
there until I hears a noise, and there was Miss 
Sanford fooling around her little Fabre—kicking 
the tires and inspecting the oil gauge and so on. 
I thinks I’ll go over and josh with her a little, like 
we always do when we see each other. So I slips 
up beside her. 

“ ‘Well, Miss Sanford,’ I says, ‘I guess your peo¬ 
ple don’t go for their joy ride this evening.’ 

“ ‘I bet you they do,’ she snaps out, sudden. 

“I saw right away that she had said something 
she didn’t mean to, for then she turns red as fire, 
and next I see that she was mad as a tick over 
something or other. 

“ ‘Go away, Tim,’ she says, ‘I don’t want to talk 
to you.’ 

“ ‘Hell’s bells!’ I says to myself, ‘if you’re going 




228 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


to eat my ear off, I don’t know as I want to talk to 
you, either.’ 

“So I did go away, as far as the washstand in 
the carriage house, but pretty soon in comes the 
head chauffeur. They talked for a minute and I 
see her slip something in his hand—and there’s 
only one thing they slips to chauffeurs in a joint 
of this kind. By and by, after she goes, this guy 
comes out and I begins to pump him. You see, 
all I wondered was what I had said to make her 
so angry. I asks him, ‘What’s the Queen of Hearts 
so mad at?’ I says. 

“ ‘Search me,’ says the guy. ‘Oh, she’s just a 
wild one! But she can get as mad as she 
wants at me any time. She just give me twenty 
dollars to leave the garage door and the stable 
gates unlocked in case she wants to go out late 
this evening. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ the 
guy says. I told him I wouldn’t.” 

Besant slipped on his bathrobe and started for 
the tub. “I think, Tim,” he explained, “that that 
merely means that Miss Sanford is going home 
very shortly. I had an idea that she might.” 

“Oh, that’s what it means, is it?” retorted Tim. 
“And when she goes home does she usually take a 
man’s hat box and a pair of man’s riding boots in 
the tonneau? And does she take pains to throw a 
lap robe over them when she sees someone 
coming?” 

Besant laughed. “Well, those had probably 
been there since afternoon, before the plans were 
changed.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


229 


“Not much they weren’t!” answered Tim. 
“They’d been put there inside of an hour. I know 
because I went all over that car from top to bottom 
about five o’clock, when I still thought it was me 
who was going to do the driving!” 

More impressed with this story than he intended 
that Tim should realize, Besant finished his bath 
and returned to his dressing. 

“So that’s your news, Tim?” he said, to pick up 
the conversation. “Have you got any more?” 

“Well, no,” replied Tim. “Oh yes, there is, too. 
I’d almost forgotten. I’ve got a letter here I was 
told to give you.” 

Fishing it out of his pocket, Tim handed his 
master a thin, sealed envelope without any inscrip¬ 
tion. Besant looked at it, perplexed. 

“Who gave you this?” he asked. “Who is it 
from?” 

Tim grinned again, highly pleased with the part 
he was playing. 

“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s from the other young 
lady—Miss What’s-her-name ? Miss Connie.” 




Chapter XLIII 

A LETTER from Connie! Here was an event 
and one that must have cost no little effort to 
that aloof and contemptuous soul. When actually 
opened, however, the note proved to be unex¬ 
pectedly human and friendly. 

Dear Mr. Besant: 

Please forgive the intrusion of this afternoon, although 
I am sure that D. S. never will. 

As you may have gathered, I did not go to the island 
purely for the sake of being malicious. 

It has occurred to me that you might have left your 
hat or any other small object down at the boathouse this 
afternoon, and that about half an hour after dinner would 
be an excellent time for you to go down and retrieve it. 

Yours- 

The Hermit Thrush. 

Besant put the letter back in its envelope, but 
its contents gave him serious thought during all 
the minutes that remained before he had com¬ 
pleted his dressing. 

The invitation itself was perfectly simple. If he 
would go down to the boathouse after dinner, 
Connie would meet him there and would tell him 
her reason for wishing to get him back from the 
island, a reason which apparently still held in full 
force. But Royal Besant was no longer willing 
to regard such a casual engagement with the 
amused detachment with which he might have 
230 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


231 


regarded it twelve hours before. His adventure 
with that determined little madcap, Dorothy San¬ 
ford, had distinctly opened his eyes in that regard. 

In fact, an increasing number of things had 
occurred that day which had completely sobered 
Royal Besant in his viewpoint toward his odd 
mission. That Ruiz Serrano intended to run away 
with the daughter of Damon Crewe regardless of 
consequences, and run away at the very first oppor¬ 
tunity, was not now a vague conjecture, but an 
established and determined reality. That Serrano, 
moreover, really did have certain facts in his past 
history which he was not willing to have come to 
light was no longer a matter of malicious rumor, 
but of direct confession on his own part. More 
than Besant had been inclined to believe, the 
anonymous letters seemed to have some basis for 
their contemptible insinuations. Cynthia Crewe, 
to be sure, might know Serrano’s secret and still 
remain unchanged in her devotion, but, as Besant 
began to realize with greater and greater solem¬ 
nity, the viewpoint of an infatuated young woman 
was not a wholly sound basis for judgment on the 
acts of her lover. Neither was the mere personal 
impression which Besant himself had formed of 
Serrano. Damon Crewe, for one, would never be 
satisfied with opinions as partial as those. It was 
not for any such careless guardianship that he 
had laid his trust in Royal Besant. 

To go no further than simple known facts, 
Dorothy Sanford, for better or for worse, was ap- , 
parently still determined to forward, that very 




232 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


night, the elopement that Besant himself was 
pledged to prevent. The fact that Serrano had given 
his word not to leave the grounds was, after all, 
merely a forced and unwilling promise. If Ser¬ 
rano should prove to be a scoundrel he would 
merely laugh at Besant for being such a trusting 
and innocent fool. Promise or no promise, Besant 
had already realized that to leave the walls and 
the gates unguarded that night would be nothing 
less than criminal negligence. 

And now came this invitation of Connie’s, to be 
at the boathouse, at the opposite side of the 
grounds and at the very time when his vigilance 
at the walls might be most needed. Could that be 
another ruse, another trap exactly similar to the 
one into which he had already fallen? Coming 
from anyone else but Connie, he would have im¬ 
mediately suspected it, but every evidence had 
been that Connie and Dorothy Sanford could 
always be found on opposite sides of every 
enterprise. 

No, Connie’s request was not one that could be 
ignored, but at the same time Besant could make 
at least a temporary disposition of his limited 
forces. He called to Tim Hannigan, who was now 
strolling around the outer rooms, making a critical 
examination of their art objects. 

“Tim,” he said, “I want you to do something for 
me and not ask too many questions. I want you to 
go down now and keep your eyes on the gates of 
the grounds and especially on the garage. If any 
strange car comes up to the walls let me know at 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


233 


once. Send for me through one of the servants. If 
Miss Sanford’s car attempts to go out, I want you 
to stop it.” 

At this odd order Tim looked at his master 
with a vague uncertainty. 

“But, Mr. Besant,” he protested, “what’s the big 
idea? I must have missed a trick somewhere in 
all this fast dealing. Just who is it that’s got this, 
date with the orange blossoms—Miss Crewe or 
Miss Sanford? It looks to me now as if you was 
trying to jinx the whole business. What do you 
care, so long as nobody don’t try to slap a con¬ 
tract on to Miss Sanford?” 

“Well, never mind that,” said Besant. “You’ll 
know soon enough. Do just as I tell you.” 

“But, Mr. Besant,” persisted Tim. “Suppose 
Miss Sanford herself is driving, what can I do? 
If it were the Switzer, now, I could put a grain 
sack over his head or stick a wagon spoke into 
his wheels, but you can’t do that to a lady.” 

Besant laughed. “I don’t think you’ll have to 
worry, Tim, as long as it’s daylight. By the time 
it’s dark I’ll come myself. If Miss Sanford should 
happen to take out her car, just go up and begin 
to talk to her—and stick like a leech. I don’t think 
she’ll go as long as you’re there. Just make your¬ 
self an intolerable nuisance.” 

Tim nodded. “Well, sure,” he agreed, “I can 
do that.” 




Chapter XLIV 

B ESANT glanced at his watch as he took it from 
the dressing table and slipped it into his 
pocket. Twenty minutes before seven. Damon 
Crewe would be expecting him at any time now. 
Putting Connie’s letter beside the others, which 
were locked in his kit bag, Besant followed Tim, 
who had already gone forth into the halls, shaking 
his head doubtingly over his strange commission. 

At the end of the hall, the double doors of the 
invalid’s bedroom were slightly open and, hear¬ 
ing a low, droning voice within, Besant paused, 
then knocked. At the knock, the low, droning 
voice came to a sudden stop and Damon Crewe’s 
voice itself called, “Come in.” 

The lights in the long, high room had not been 
turned on and, in the gathering twilight, two 
anxious faces looked toward Besant as he entered. 
The first was the pale face of Damon Crewe, poised 
against the pillows. The other was that of a man 
in evening dress who sat in close conference, at 
the other side of the bed. As the door swung 
open, this other man hastily gathered some papers 
from the counterpane and slipped them into the 
pocket of his coat. 

At the sight of Besant, the old banker gave his 
usual abrupt nod of recognition, but, when he 
spoke, his tone was oddly strained. 

“Oh, it’s you!” he said. “Come in, Besant” 

234 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


235 


At the same time, the other man rose to his 
feet. “How do you do, Mr. Besant?” he said, in 
the same suppressed tone, and it was only then 
that Besant recognized that the man in evening 
dress was the lawyer, Arthur Cramp. 

Something important had been interrupted. 
Besant could feel that in the whole atmosphere 
of the room. For several seconds both he and 
Cramp remained standing in awkward silence, 
both with their eyes toward the banker, both 
awaiting their cue from him. Invalid that he was, 
the old gentleman did not delay long in assuming 
his natural position of command. Again he 
nodded curtly at Besant. 

“Shut those doors, please,” he ordered. “Now 
kindly sit down.” 

In complete bewilderment and in something 
approaching fear, Besant closed the doors, then 
drew a chair to the nearer side of the bed. Damon 
Crewe turned to him, but only absently. 

“Anything happened?” he asked. “Had a good 
day?” 

Besant nodded to the latter part of the question. 
“No, nothing has happened—of any great moment 
I think that everything is quiet, for the time 
being.” 

As Besant himself realized, his own tone was 
a very weak attempt at carrying conviction. In 
ordinary circumstances he could not have had the 
slightest hope that the shrewd old banker would 
be deceived, but Besant had already realized that 
any report of his own was now a thing of very 




236 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


slight consequence. That he had guessed cor¬ 
rectly, the old banker showed at once by his 
indifferent nod. 

“That’s good,” he answered, absently, then 
immediately fell back into some other and previous 
deliberation. 

In the silence that followed, Besant looked 
anxiously at the pale, troubled face on the pillows. 
The invalid had not been shaved during the day 
and the scant white bristles that showed on his 
chin gave to his cheeks an unusually gaunt and 
sunken appearance. From time to time, outside 
the windows, came the twittering of a restless 
bird in the ivy of the walls, and within the room 
a watch could be heard ticking, intermittently, 
under the pillows or in somebody’s pocket. Once 
Cramp moved uneasily at the other side of the 
beff and his stiff evening shirt gave an unpleasant 
creak which he himself immediately tried to 
suppress. 

After minutes, it seemed, Damon Crewe pain¬ 
fully moved himself on his pillows and turned to 
Besant. 

“Mr. Besant,” he began, “you are already aware 
of the situation in my house. Mr. Cramp has 
just brought to my attention certain facts which 
give it a very serious aspect. In my own mind I 
am not yet satisfied what steps I should take, but 
it is apparent that some steps should be taken at 
once.” 

The old gentleman paused again, then looked 
sharply at Besant. “Mr. Besant, I am sorry to say 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


237 


that three thousand dollars in bills have been 
taken from the safe in my study.” 

If the banker, however, or Cramp, had expected 
any surprise from the younger man, both were 
disappointed. 

“When?” asked Besant, quietly. 

“At some time between last evening and six 
o’clock this afternoon,” answered his host. “As 
you can see, it has become very difficult for me 
to use my hands. I do not even write my own 
checks except when absolutely necessary. But I 
have a large payroll and other weekly expenses 
here at this place, and so I find it simpler to keep 
a large sum of money in bills. The money arrived 
yesterday afternoon and was placed in the safe 
under my own direction. When Mr. Cramp came 
back, this evening, he wished to get certain certifi¬ 
cates from my safe and was unable to find them. I 
was wheeled out there myself, and, while I found 
the certificates untouched, yet I discovered that the 
money was missing.” 

“Was there any way to identify the money?” 
asked Besant. “I mean, was it in large bills, or 
small?” 

“It was all in new bills, directly from the bank, 
and was mostly in twenties.” 

“How did the money come?” asked Besant. 

“By express,” replied Damon Crewe, “yester¬ 
day afternoon. It was brought to me personally by 
the agent from Black Point. He is an old man, 
absolutely trustworthy, who has been doing the 
same thing for years. He counted the money in 




238 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


my presence, took his receipt, and then tied up the 
package for me again. It remained in my lap 
until it was put in the safe.” 

Besant pondered a moment. His previous ques¬ 
tion had been merely the usual ones on such 
occasions. He now asked the question that was 
actually on his mind. 

“You say, Mr. Crewe, that this package of bills 
was put in the safe by your direction. Who 
actually put it in?” 

The invalid hesitated a moment, then his answer 
came in his usual tones. “My daughter Cynthia,” 
he replied. “Cynthia put it there, under my 
eyes.” 

It was decidedly not the answer that Besant had 
expected, but his next question followed easily 
enough. 

“And was anyone else in the room at the time?” 

“Nobody,” answered his host, “but my daughter 
Connie came in while we were still discussing it. 
I remember that because Cynthia was unable to 
close the lock of the safe and Connie, who is very 
much quicker at all those things, pushed her aside 
and did it herself.” 

“But other people,” persisted Besant, “must have 
known that you were accustomed to keeping 
money in that safe?” 

The banker hitched a little impatiently on his 
pillows. “Presumably,” he answered. “I always 
have to have money here. That would be the 
obvious place to keep it.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


239 


Besant thought a moment. “And the safe has 
been locked all day?” 

His host looked quietly toward the lawyer at 
the other side of the bed. “Mr. Cramp says that 
it won’t lock at all.” 

Besant also looked toward the attorney. “Just 
what do you mean?” 

Cramp hastened to answer. “I mean just that,” 
he replied. “I opened the safe to-night easily 
enough—by the combination. I have known it 
for years. But when we closed it we found that 
the bolt would slide and remain apparently locked, 
but actually it would open again at a turn of 
your hand.” 

Besant turned to his host. “Do you wish me to 
look at it—now?” 

The old banker raised his hands from the 
counterpane, their usual scant three inches. “Just 
a minute,” he commanded, “just a minute. That 
is not the only thing I had to discuss.” The 
invalid paused and then went on in the same 
even tones. “Mr. Cramp,” he explained, “has 
also brought to my attention certain very serious 
facts concerning a guest in my house.” He half 
turned toward the man at the other side of the 
bed. “Cramp, do you wish to submit those facts 
to Mr. Besant?” 

With his usual deference the lawyer bowed 
slightly. “Just as you say, Mr. Crewe.” 

The host deliberated and glanced at the fading 
light of the room. “I think,” he replied, “that it 
will be sufficient. Cramp, if you yourself lay the 




240 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


facts before Mr. Besant just as you told them to 
me. Sometime later, I mean. I do not think I 
care to go all over the matter just now. But 
before you go down, Mr. Besant, will you kindly 
stop here a minute? I have something to say.” 

“Now?” asked Besant. 

“Yes, now, if you will.” 




Chapter XLV 

B ESANT rose from his chair and waited while 
the attorney passed out of the room and 
closed the door. He paused a moment, then turned 
again toward the bed to find the old banker look¬ 
ing at him with a completely changed expression, 
quite the expression which he had worn the 
previous day. His pale lips even wore a faint, 
lurking smile. 

“Well, Besant,” he hailed, abruptly, “what have 
you done to my daughter—my daughter Cynthia ?” 

Completely bewildered, Besant returned his look. 
“Miss Cynthia?” he asked. “What do you mean?” 

Damon Crewe was still smiling faintly. “She’s 
afraid of you,” he insisted, “and, as it is, I guess 
it’s a very good thing. When you sent up your 
message to me this afternoon, poor Cynthia was 
reading beside my bed. I knew from the way she 
acted that something had happened. Now tell me 
what it was.” 

Besant laughed quietly, only too glad to see the 
invalid back in this mood. 

“I am afraid,” he confessed, “that Miss Cynthia 
was more upset by circumstances than by any¬ 
thing that I had done. To tell the truth, Mr. 
Crewe, your daughter had planned to be married 
to-night.” 

The old gentleman nodded quietly, in his same 
amazing way. “Yes,” he answered, “I guessed 
241 




242 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


that much. And how about it? How do things 
stand now?” 

“I think,” answered Besant, “that the plans will 
be changed.” 

The older man looked at him thoughtfully for 
a moment, studying Besant himself rather than 
any words that he actually said. 

“You really think that?” he asked. 

“Yes,” answered Besant, “for two reasons. In 
the first place, I have had a serious talk with 
Serrano. He has given me his word that he will 
not leave the grounds to-night. In the second place, 
I intend to watch him to see that he keeps his 
promise.” 

The thin lips of the older man tightened in grim 
amusement. “Besant,” he said, “I am afraid that 
you do business very much in the way that I do 
myself. But I’m glad you told me.” 

Again there fell over the room one of those odd, 
potent silences in which the two men, the older 
and the younger, seemed to find a strange, 
unspoken communion. It was Damon Crewe him¬ 
self who broke it at last. 

“Besant,” he said, quietly, “what are we going 
to do about this young man—Serrano?” 

Royal Besant looked away at the open window 
where still a bird was fluttering nervously in the 
ivy. The older man watched him a moment, then 
added, slowly: 

“You find it very hard to lose your faith in 
him—don’t you Besant?” 

“I don’t know at all that I have lost it.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


243 


From behind him Royal Besant heard a faint, 
grunting chuckle. Again there was silence, and 
for a second time Damon Crewe broke in abruptly. 

“Besant,” he demanded, “who stole my money?” 

Besant looked calmly at the face on the pillows. 
“Did anyone?” he asked, quietly. 

“It’s certainly gone,” replied Damon Crewe. 
“And you don’t think that Serrano took it?” 

Besant looked at him firmly. “Absolutely not,” 
he replied. 

“Then who did take it?” 

“The same person,” replied Besant, “who has 
been trying to get him out of this house ever since 
he came into it. If that money is ever found on 
Serrano, this other person will be found not far 
in the background.” 

The banker looked down at the counterpane. 
Fundamentally his attitude made no great effort 
to contradict Besant, yet, superficially, in his voice, 
there was a slightly sharper tone. 

“But, Mr. Besant,” he insisted, “you can’t keep 
on believing this man an angel if facts prove him 
something else.” 

“I don’t think him an angel,” replied Besant, 
quickly, “but at the same time I don’t think him 
a fool. I quite agree with you, Mr. Crewe, that 
there is something in that man’s history which 
we don’t know. Certainly he ought not to marry 
your daughter until we find out what it is. But 
if Ruiz Serrano were the biggest blackguard on 
earth and intended to drain your treasury from 
now until the end of his life, he would certainly 




244 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


not risk his own chances by robbing you of a 
paltry three thousand dollars on the eve of his 
marriage. On the other hand, if some one wished 
to prevent his marriage by involving him in a 
robbery that would be exactly the time to do it.” 

Besant stopped, rather hotly, and the older man 
answered but one word: 

“Correct!” 

“Half an hour ago,” continued Besant, “I was 
talking with Ruiz Serrano and I was not talking 
to a man who had just robbed a safe. That is 
one thing to which I can swear. And, Mr. Crewe, 
I can swear to another. Ruiz Serrano is very 
deeply and very genuinely in love—very pitifully 
in love I could call it.” 

“Yes,” replied the older man, gently, “that is 
the very great pity of it, if anything is wrong. 
They are both very deeply in love.” As if to go 
no further on this line, he looked up, smiling. 
“Well, Besant,” he exclaimed, “you do me good. 
You have a way of coming in at just the right 
moment and bracing up my own convictions. Now 
go talk to Cramp and see if he’s going to shake 
you as he has shaken me. He’s got some very 
astounding facts.” 

Besant rose from his chair, then came suddenly 
back to the bed. “Mr. Crewe,” he said, in a very 
low voice, “we’ve got to talk plainly. What about 
this attorney of yours—Mr, Cramp?” 

In his own turn Damon Crewe glanced at the 
door, but seemed to see no reason for secrecy. 
Instead, he laughed. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


245 


“Besant,” he answered, “what did I tell you yes¬ 
terday about Arthur Cramp?” 

Besant smiled rather ruefully, reluctant to 
repeat the word. “You told me,” he admitted, 
“that he was an idiot.” 

“I said ‘a fool,’ ” corrected the older man. “I 
have known Arthur Cramp for over thirty years, 
and twenty-four hours ought not to change my 
opinion. But he’s honest enough, if that’s what 
you mean.” 

“But because he is honest,” suggested Besant, 
“that would not prevent him from being a tool 
for some one who was a great deal cleverer and 
not quite so honest?” 

“Ah!” answered Damon Crewe. “Now you’re 
raising entirely another question.” 




Chapter XLVI 

T O face immediately a man who has been dis¬ 
cussed as Arthur Cramp had been dis¬ 
cussed by Besant and his host is rather a trying 
ordeal, but in this case there was no help for it. 
As Besant left the banker’s room and passed down 
the heavily carpeted hall, the attorney appeared 
from another room, two or three doors away, and 
stopped him with a nod of his head. Glancing up 
and down the hallway, he took Besant by the arm 
and led him into the room from which he himself 
had just emerged. 

The room they entered was obscured in a heavy 
twilight, deeper on that—the eastern—side of the 
house. Softly closing the door, Cramp turned on 
a light. In the added gleams, Besant looked 
around at what was obviously Damon Crewe’s 
private study and den. The furniture here was 
of a homelier, more substantial kind that that in 
the rest of the house. There were one or two 
heavy, black-leather armchairs of the sort used 
in clubs. The bookcase, which lined one wall, 
was packed with law books and miscellaneous 
volumes of railroad and industrial reports. The 
walls and hangings were permanently saturated 
with the faint, stale odor of heavy cigar smoke. 
“Now here—” began the attorney. 

But Besant held up his hand. “Where does that 
246 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


247 


lead?” he interrupted, nodding to a door at the 
side of the room. 

The lawyer glanced toward it indifferently. 
“That leads to Mr. Crewe’s dressing room. Beyond 
that is his bedroom.” 

Besant quickly opened the door, glanced into 
the dressing room, then nodded for Cramp to 
continue. 

The lawyer turned at once to a safe set into 
the wall, a primitive, old-fashioned affair placed 
there probably thirty years before, when the house 
had been built. Cramp grasped the handle of 
the iron door, turned it sharply, and the safe came 
open at once. 

“You see?” he whispered. 

Without answering, Besant stepped to the safe, 
closed it, and twirled the combination dials. He 
turned the handle, and again the door opened. 
Cramp had been perfectly correct. Do what he 
might, the safe would not lock. 

Thoughtfully, Besant studied the inner side of 
the door, which contained the mechanism of the 
combination. It was covered with a single painted 
plate of sheet iron or steel, but the screws which 
held it in place were covered with undisturbed 
rust and their edges remained as true as on the 
day on which the safe had been built. The lock 
at least had not been touched. 

Besant closed the safe again and threw the bolt 
back and forth in various ways, first gently, then 
violently, then gradually, with steadily increasing 
force. There came to the palm of his hand a 




248 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


softly yielding and very suspicious feeling. Throw¬ 
ing open the door, he turned to Cramp. 

“Do you think you could get me a long, thin 
nail file with a very sharp point?” 

The lawyer picked up from the table a small 
brass paper-Knife in the form of a dagger. 
“Wouldn’t this do?” 

Besant shook his head. “No, a nail file is just 
what I want. If you haven’t one, there is one 
in my room, but, if you don’t mind, I should like 
to keep working at this while you are gone. Per¬ 
haps you had better put out the light, if you are 
going to open the door.” 

Willingly enough, Cramp turned out the light 
and went into the hall, but the instant that he had 
gone Besant swiftly dropped to his knees and 
picked up the very implement which he had 
refused from Cramp. This he ran cautiously into 
the deep hole in the frame of the safe, the channel 
into which the bolt should have properly passed. 
He found exactly what he had expected. Very 
gently, taking pains not to tear it, he pried out of 
the hole a small, tightly wadded bit of gray-green 
paper. There was no time to examine it now, 
and, slipping it hurriedly into the pocket of his 
dinner jacket, he resumed an elaborate show of 
turning back and forth the handle of the bolt and 
the combination. 

Cramp appeared almost immediately, care¬ 
fully closed the door of the room, and turned on 
the light. He held out a nail file with an ivory 
handle. “Is this what you want?” he asked. 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


249 


“Excellent,” answered Besant. “Now, Mr. Cramp 
I am going to show you an old safe-cracker’s trick. 
Only now I am going to work it backward—to close 
a safe, not to open it. Please slowly turn the dials 
to the first letter of the combination.” 

There were two dials on the lock and, rather 
stiffly, Cramp turned the larger one to the letter 
‘K.’ Immediately Besant, with a great show of 
careful precision, inserted the point of the nail 
file under the edge of the dial and pried it 
slightly. 

“Now then,” he commanded, “the second letter.” 

Cramp turned the small dial to the letter ‘R , 9 
then the pointer on the large dial to the letter ‘N , 9 
and the pointer on the small dial to the letter ‘F . 9 
Each time Besant went through his same elaborate 
hocus-pocus with the nail file. 

“That all?” he asked, at last. 

“That’s all,” replied Cramp. 

Very carefully Besant pretended to examine both 
sides of the door, gently tapped the inner side with 
the palm of his hand as if to shake down the 
tumblers of the lock, worked the bolt slowly in 
and out and then stood up in feigned triumph. 

“Now go ahead and close it,” he commanded. 
“I think it will lock.” 

Suspiciously Cramp obeyed. He swung the door 
and turned the handle. Naturally, with the wad 
of paper gone, the bolt slid clear home and 
remained in place. The attorney looked at Besant 
in bewilderment. 

“How did you do it?” he exclaimed. 




250 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant laughed. “Oh, it’s just a little matter of 
adjustments.” 

“But could you open it again?” 

“Certainly,” replied Besant and he spoke quite 
truthfully, for Cramp himself had just taught him 
the combination. “But,” he added, “now that we 
both know it’s safely locked, let’s leave it so.” 

The attorney looked at his watch. “Mr. Besant, 
you’d be a dangerous man to have in an office. 
But there still remains that other matter of which 
Mr. Crewe spoke. Do you think we can postpone 
it until after dinner?” 

“I should prefer not to,” replied Besant, “but 
I think we had better. Could you make some 
excuse and come up to my rooms immediately 
afterward?” 

Turning out the light, the attorney opened the 
door and passed down the stairs, while Besant 
went straight to his own rooms. Here he took from 
his pocket the wad of paper which he had picked 
out of the lock of the safe. He smoothed it care¬ 
fully on the table, studied it for a few moments, 
and a very odd expression came into his eyes. 
Rising quickly, he went back into his dressing 
room, unlocked his kit bag, and from his packet 
of letters took out the fragment which Cramp had 
given him in the inn at Gaylordsville—the frag¬ 
ment written in Spanish in Serrano’s handwriting. 
Returning to the table, Besant put the two bits of 
paper side by side. They fitted exactly! On the 
fragment taken from the safe only a few words 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


251 


remained, but the two had undoubtedly once been 
part of the same letter. 

For a moment more Besant deliberated; then 
rising again, he glanced around the room until he 
saw a bit of newspaper stuffed into the fireplace, 
ready for kindling. Tearing off a piece three or 
four inches long, he first made on it certain 
notations in pencil, and then rolled it into a 
small, compact ball. Going to his door, he looked 
carefully up and down the hall, and then slipped 
back to the darkened little study. To open the 
safe now, with the combination, was a very 
simple process, and quickly Besant slipped his 
own wad of paper in the channel of the bolt. Once 
or twice he tried the lock. Each time it came 
open to a single turn. The safe now remained 
exactly as Cramp had found it. 




Chapter XLVII 

D INNER in the Crewe house that evening was 
naturally a very curious ceremony, but for 
once the presence of Arthur Cramp proved to be 
a boon. The lawyer chatted briskly throughout 
the whole meal with Mrs. Crewe, or rather at Mrs. 
Crewe, for the hostess largely confined her part in 
the conversation to single remarks or to nodding 
from time to time in her querulous, indifferent 
manner. In either case, the effect was the same, 
for it freed the rest of the company of any 
necessity of making forced conversation. 

Dorothy Sanford, it was announced, was con¬ 
fined to her room with a headache, while Connie 
was absent without any explanation whatever. 
That Cynthia Crewe and Serrano had not also 
followed their example was the source of main 
surprise to Besant. Both were present and, while 
neither could have been expected to say very 
much, yet both sat quietly enough through the 
whole trying ordeal and even joined the rest of 
the party for a moment or two on the terrace. 

Besant, himself, was, in fact, the first to make 
his excuses. Taking a little stroll through the 
grounds, he found Tim still on duty near the 
garage, but beginning to weary of his occupation. 
So far as any attempt on the part of Dorothy San¬ 
ford to get her car outside the gates was concerned, 
Tim reported all quiet along the Potomac, but he 
252 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


2&3 


did have one bit of news of which, for a moment, 
Besant did not realize the significance. 

“Say, Mr. Besant,” exclaimed Tim, “how long 
does it take a man to get over sprained ankle?” 

“Anywhere from a week to ten years,” said 
Besant. 

“All right, then,” said Tim. “Now I’ll ask you 
another. Did you ever hear of a Swiss named 
‘Lawrence McCarthy’?” 

At this, indeed, Besant did begin to pay atten¬ 
tion. “What do you mean, Tim?” he demanded. 

Tim winked and nodded his head, as he always 
did when he felt that Besant was about to 
realize his acumen. 

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “You know that valet 
of Mr. Serrano’s that was supposed to be in bed 
to-day with a sprained ankle and poison ivy? 
Well, he was in bed so far as any of us knew. He* 
didn’t come to breakfast with the other servants 
and he didn’t come to lunch, but now this even¬ 
ing he begins to hobble around again with a cane 
and his hands all done up in bandages. The other 
lads begun to guy him, and so he seemed to be 
keeping away by himself. ‘Fontaine’—that’s 
what his name was supposed to be, but I always 
called him ‘Polly.’ 

“Well,” continued Tim, “when you told me to 
keep Miss Sanford’s car from leaving the garage, 
I thought the best way would be to put another 
car in front of it. So I comes down here and shoves 
the next car around a little, so the rear fenders 
was just overlapping. Now, I figures, if anyone 




254 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


tries to get out that car of Miss Sanford’s and I 
ain’t present, there’ll either be one hell of a crash 
or else they’ll have to take time to move it. Then 
I slips around here outside the building where I 
could keep an eye both on the garage and the 
gates. I was getting a little tired of waiting, so 
I took out my dice and began to toss a few throws, 
one hand against the other. 

“Pretty soon,” resumed Tim, “I begins to hear a 
little tap, tap on the gravel and I takes a squint 
around the corner of the building. Sure enough, 
there comes Mr. Switzer, just like a lame soldier 
out for an airing. First he walks back and forth 
like he weren’t going nowhere in particular, and 
then he turns and hobbles into the garage. 

“‘Aha! Me hated rival!’ I says. ‘So you’re 
going to drive that car, after all!’ And with that 
I slips in behind him. 

“By this time,” explained Tim, “you understand 
it was beginning to get dark. There was one light 
in the washroom, but there wa’n’t none at all 
where the cars was. I keeps outside in the 
shadows, and straight as a shot Mr. Switzer goes 
for Miss Sanford’s car. He looks it over, monkeys 
a little with the levers, then he sees how the other 
car is placed. Then what does he do ? Puts down 
his cane, walks over, just as well as you or me, 
takes off the brake, and shoves that other car back 
in position. And you know that ain’t no easy trick 
for a well man. ‘So that's it!’ I says. ‘The kind of 
sprained ankle you've got is the same kind a 
fighter gets when the purse ain’t big enough.’ 




THE CAY CONSPIRATORS 


255 


“So then,” continued Tim, “I wanted to see what 
Mr. Switzer would have to say for himself. Just 
when he was coming back into the washroom, 
where the light was, I squats down, begins to 
whistle, and starts throwing my dice again—very 
innocent. Then out he comes, hobbling again. 

“ ‘Hello, Polly!’ I hails him. ‘How’s the injured 
member?’ 

“ ‘Pretty gude,’ he answers and starts to go 
past me. 

“ ‘Come on, Polly,’ I says. ‘Forget your troubles. 
Sit down a minute and I’ll roll you a couple. 
Fifty cents a throw. Simplest game in the world. 
First one gets a pair gets the whole shooting 
match.’ 

“Polly holds up his bandages. ‘How can I woll,’ 
he says, ‘wid hants like dese?’ 

“ ‘Easy enough,’ I says. ‘I’ll roll for us both, 
out of my cap.’ 

“I guess,” explained Tim, “that Polly begun to 
see that there was only one way to get rid of me. 
So I got him a blanket and helped him sit down, 
and begun to toss the bones out of my cap for the 
both of us. Polly won the first. I intended he 
should. Then he won three more and he wanted 
to quit 

“‘Quit now?’ I says. ‘When you’re winning? 
No gentleman does that. But all right. I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do. I’ll roll you double or quits.’ 
So I tossed a pair and he owed me four dollars.” 

Distinctly impatient at the speed with which 




256 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


this story was progressing, Besant broke in at 
once. 

“Tim,” he ordered, “I’m sorry, but I’m in a 
hurry.” 

“Now don’t rush the pitcher,” retorted Tim. 
“I’m coming to the end. You see, now the ques¬ 
tion comes—with his hands all bandaged, how is 
Polly going to pay me? I wondered that myself. 
But Polly begins to fumble inside his pockety He 
takes out a billfold and holds it just with the tips 
of his fingers. It was clumsy work, but I got my 
money. Then sudden, slap! bang! Down on the 
floor goes his billfold, wide open. On the inside of 
it was one of these isinglass things with a driver’s 
license. And it wasn’t no Massachusetts license, 
either. It was District of Columbia. I knew it 
well because I carried one myself in war time. 
And on it, as plain as your eye, was the name 
‘Lawrence McCarthy’!” 

“Did he know that you saw it?” asked Besant, 
quickly. 

“I didn’t mean he should,” replied Tim, “but he 
may have.” 

All right, Tim. You stay right where you are. 
I’ll be back, myself, inside of an hour, but if you 
want me, go down to the boathouse and whistle. 
If I don’t answer, go to my rooms.” 




Chapter XLVIII 

T O KEEP his engagements both with Arthur 
Cramp and with Connie would now mean 
hurried work, and Besant went directly to the 
house and up to his rooms. As he entered, the 
lawyer was rising from a chair by the fireplace. 

“I began to think that you weren’t coming,” he 
explained, “or else that I had misunderstood you.” 

Besant laughed, rather humorlessly. “I had to 
give some instructions to my man,” he explained, 
“and I am also afraid that I shall have to go out 
again in just a minute.” 

With Connie’s note in his mind and with the 
news that Tim had just given him, Besant’s tone 
had been sharper than he had intended, and, in 
return, the lawyer himself bridled slightly. 

“I won’t keep you long,” he answered. “I can 
cover my matter in just one minute.” 

Suiting his actions to his promise he immediately 
drew from his pocket two objects. The first was 
a soiled but recent photograph of Ruiz Serrano, 
made by a New York photographer, but with some 
figures and dates in ink on the mounting. The 
second was a large printed sheet covered with 
halftone pictures. Cramp spread the latter out on 
the little table in the center of the room, and then 
stood back, rather dramatically. 

“Now,” he demanded, “what do you make of 
those?” 


257 




258 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


Besant sat down at the table and studied first 
the photograph and then the sheet. “Where did 
you get these?” he asked. 

Cramp smiled. “Both of them,” he announced, 
“were given to me this morning by the police of 
New York City. That explains why I came back 
here to-night.” 

Besant looked at him sharply. “I thought you 
told me that you did not intend to go to the police 
in this matter.” 

For answer, Cramp merely smiled again. “I 
didn’t,” he retorted. “They came to me.” 

“Last night,” he continued, “ a lieutenant from 
the detective bureau came to my apartment. He 
had been first to the Founders’ Trust Company, 
Mr. Crewe’s bank, and they had referred him to 
me as personal attorney. The police had learned 
that”—Cramp did not mention the name of 
Serrano, but merely jerked his head toward the 
photograph— “they had learned that our friend 
there was very intimate with Mr. Crewe’s family 
and they wished to find out just where he was and 
what he was doing.” 

“Did you tell them?” demanded Besant. 

“Of course I told them.” 

“But why,” asked Besant, “didn’t they send a 
man right up here themselves? The man himself 
could have looked at Serrano.” 

“That’s the very point,” replied Cramp. “That’s 
exactly what they did want to do. They wanted 
to send a man with me to-night. I had to use 
Mr. Crewe’s name and carry the matter to very 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


259 


high quarters to keep them from doing it. In fact, 
I had to go to the commissioner himself. 
Naturally, if anything of this kind is going to come 
to light, the very last place where it must happen 
must be in Mr. Crewe’s house. As I told the com¬ 
missioner, our first thought must be to let Mr. 
Crewe’s family get clear of the whole situation. 
Let Mr. Crewe get rid of this man of his own 
accord, and then the police can go as far as they 
like with the matter.” 

The attorney stopped, and again Royal Besant 
studied the large sheet spread on the table before 
him. It was a page torn from La Semaine , a well- 
known Parisian illustrated weekly. The date 
remained still at the top—“12 Octobre, 1919.” 

In the center of the page was a large scene of a 
sort very familiar to the scandal-loving French 
papers—a crowded street with a closed motor 
bus like an ambulance waiting at the curb. 
Through two lines of craning spectators a woman, 
heavily veiled, was being led by two police officers. 
Around this central photograph was a circle of 
smaller photographs, close portraits, one of the 
same woman in a Spanish dancing costume, the 
rest of four men and two other women. Beside one 
of these a large cross had been made in ink. It 
was an indubitable picture of Serrano. 

The printed lines, wound among and below the 
photographs, evidently repeated a story well 
known at the time to the Parisian public. 

La Luciernaga—“The Firefly,” Taken to Trial for the 
Murder of the Belgian Millionaire, Lucien Herve. 




260 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


This was the line under the central photograph, 
and at the bottom of the page was the following 
brief summary: 

No arrest since the Copeau affair has gripped the imag¬ 
ination of Paris as vividly as that of Maria Perales, Span¬ 
ish dancer, known as “The Firefly” and leader of a band 
of “aristocratic” criminals who have made a practice of 
swindling wealthy foreigners at fashionable resorts of 
France, England, and Italy, culminating in the murder in 
a house in the Rue Garber, last June, of M. Herve. 

Under the smaller portraits were various 
identifications, that of Serrano bearing this brief 
and contemptuous comment: 

The “Count Luis de Montsain,” identified as Manuel 
Narvaez, a Spanish adventurer once expelled from Monte 
Carlo and later leader of an orchestra in a low resort in 
Montmartre. Accomplice of “La Luciernaga.” 

The identification was unmistakable, quite apart 
from the photograph which had apparently been 
obtained in New York and marked by the police. 
Besant looked up at the lawyer. 

“But if this man was tried for murder in Paris, 
why is he here now?” 

Cramp shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. 
The commissioner did not know, himself, or else 
did not see fit to tell me. But as nearly as I can 
make out, information had come to the police 
from abroad that certain members of this gang 
were still at large and were beginning to work in 
America.” 

Besant looked down again at the sheet on the 
table. “Can you let me keep this?” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


261 


Again Cramp shook his head. “Unfortunately, 
not. I had difficulty enough in getting the police 
to let me have it for twenty-four hours. It 
required a special order by telephone from the 
commissioner himself. A detective met me with it 
at Grand Central Station.” 

Besant quietly folded the sheet and, with the 
photograph, handed it back to Cramp. “And what 
do you propose to do now?” he asked. 

“I told Mr. Crewe,” replied the lawyer, “that 
the only thing for him to do was to summon the 
authorities from Black Point, have this man held 
for examination, and communicate with the New 
York police department. Then we could take up 
the matter with the highest authorities. See if we 
cannot have him quietly shipped out of the country 
and no one the wiser. His connection with Miss 
Cynthia Crewe is too widely known to risk a 
trial now.” 

Besant smiled slightly. “And what did Mr. 
Crewe say to that?” 

“He said to talk it over with you.” 

“And can Mr. Crewe see me again this evening?” 
asked Besant. 

“I think he expects it.” 

Besant rose from the table, and the lawyer, 
understanding the signal, moved toward the door, 
but the younger man stopped him. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he said, “would you mind answer¬ 
ing two questions?” 

“Why, certainly!” replied Cramp. “What are 
they?” 




262 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“First,” asked Besant, “who is Miss Dessler?” 

The lawyer was not exactly facing him as he 
asked the question, but Besant felt very certain 
that, slightly, he flushed. Nevertheless, he 
answered with apparent readiness. 

“Miss Dessler is a very capable woman. For 
nearly a year she was an employee of my own. 
In my office she became familiar with the affairs 
of the Crewe estate, and so when Mr. Crewe 
needed a secretary here I sent her with my 
recommendation.” 

“When?” asked Besant. 

“About six weeks ago, when Mr. Crewe opened 
this house for the season.” 

“And, now, if you don’t mind, the other ques¬ 
tion,” pursued Besant. “Who was Mrs. Crewe 
before her marriage?” 

Again the lawyer looked at him with a very odd 
expression. “Why do you ask that?” he said. 

Besant shrugged carelessly. “For one thing,” 
he answered, “because of the apparent difference 
between her age and Mr. Crewe’s. There must 
be fully twenty years’ difference. Is there not?” 

The lawyer nodded. “Yes, there is,” he con¬ 
fessed. He paused a moment, then, as if seeing 
no harm in the question, he continued: 

“Mrs. Crewe was married in Paris when she 
was only nineteen. She had been born and 
brought up abroad. Her father was a Mass¬ 
achusetts man with quite a notable history. He 
was a colonel in the Union army during the Civil 
War, and after the war, with a number of other 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


263 


American officers, entered the service of the 
Khedive of Egypt. He was married in Europe to 
a Frenchwoman, took part in the Franco-Prussian 
War, and, I believe, in some other excitements 
which followed the Empire. After that he settled 
down and for thirty years was United States 
consul at Pau, in southern France.” 

A second time the lawyer paused, then added, 
abruptly: “Perhaps I had better tell you, Mr. 
Besant, that it was through Mrs. Crewe that I 
became associated with her husband’s affairs. 
Mrs. Crewe is a first cousin of my own.” 




Chapter XLIX 

A S soon as the attorney had left, Besant turned 
back to the windows and for several 
minutes stood looking out into the night. Then 
quietly he extinguished all the lights in his room, 
opened the door a few inches, and, hidden in the 
darkness, began to study the general layout of the 
upper hall. 

Almost opposite from his own room was the 
door of the private study where the safe was 
located. At the end of the corridor, to the right, 
were the double doors of Mr. Crewe’s bedroom. 
Slightly to the left and on the opposite side was 
a large, open rotunda where two broad, winding 
staircases led down from the upper hall, meeting 
at the first landing. Beyond the staircase and on 
the same side of the hall was the first door of 
Serrano’s apartment. Where the other rooms of 
the second story were placed Besant knew only 
in a general way. 

Very softly Besant closed his door and moved 
back to turn on the light, but in the darkness he 
missed calculations and his hip struck the table, 
knocking a book to the floor. With an exclama¬ 
tion Besant put out his hand to find the outlines 
of the table, when suddenly, from the blackness 
of his own inner rooms, he heard a low whisper: 
“Mr. Besant!” 

Besant stopped in his tracks, his hand still 
864 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


265 


uplifted toward the switch. He paused a moment, 
heard no other sound, then answered in a low 
voice: “Yes? Who is it?” 

The door of the dressing room moved slightly 
and Besant could hear a rustling sound as some 
one moved forward. 

“Who is it?” he repeated. 

For a second more the voice gave no answer, 
then, as a vague shape slowly began to emerge in 
the darkness, a whisper came again: 

“Please not so loud. It’s I. It’s Connie.” 

Immediately Besant stepped forward, and at 
the same moment the figure of Connie Crewe was 
standing in the darkness, not two feet away. He 
could hear her quick, frightened breathing, could 
almost feel, rather than see, a long cape she was 
wearing. 

Besant lowered his hand. “Yes, Miss Crewe,” 
he whispered. “What is it? I’ll turn on a light.” 

The girl put out her hand and touched him. “No, 
no!” she begged. “For Heaven’s sake don’t do 
that! I can tell you now. You didn’t come down 
to the boathouse. I began to be frightened. I 
had to speak to you. I saw a light here a minute 
ago. I came in through the door of your bedroom, 
from the servants’ stairway.” 

In the darkness Besant could still hear her 
breaths coming in frightened gasps, and he put 
his hand on her shoulder. “Miss Crewe,” he said, 
“I understand perfectly. I think you know you 
can trust me. Please tell me. What’s happened?” 




266 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“It’s this,” whispered the girl. “You must take 
it. Please take it and put it back.” 

“Put what back?” asked Besant. 

“This! This! I’m trying to give it to you! It’s 
in my hand! Take it! Take it! Please!” 

Against his coat, in the darkness, Besant felt 
something pressed, and, putting up his hand, 
grasped a thin, heavy package. Immediately 
Connie’s own hand fell away. 

“What is this?” Besant whispered. 

“It’s money—a package of money. From father’s 
safe. I found it to-night. Don’t ask me any more. 
Please don’t.” 

“But, Miss Crewe,” urged Besant, “you must tell 
me more. Where did you get this? Don’t you 
realize what it may mean?” 

“Yes, yes,” begged the girl. “I know. I thought 
I knew more than you all. I knew that Cynthia 
was planning to run away with Frank Serrano. 
I was glad to have them. I was ready to help 
them. I thought that the talk against Frank was 
merely mother. She has always been hostile to 
him. She didn’t want Cynthia to marry him. 
But this afternoon-” 

The girl stopped with a choke, and again in the 
darkness, Besant pressed his hand on her 
shoulder. He could feel it rise and fall con¬ 
vulsively under his grip. 

“Please, Miss Connie,” he whispered. “You 
must tell me. Tell me it all.” 

For a moment longer the girl stood sobbing, 
then she went on in slow, painful effort: “I was 





THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


267 


on the balcony, this noon, outside father’s rooms. 
It was when I watched you and Dorothy Sanford. 
Miss Dessler was with father, in his bedroom— 
taking dictation. I had thought that she was 
spying on Cynthia. I thought that mother had 
paid her to do it. I had never liked Miss Dessler. 
I had been watching her. That was my part in the 
plot, but the others didn’t know I was helping.” 

The girl stopped again. In the blackness Besant 
could feel her hands moving convulsively under 
her cape. Then she went on. 

“I turned to go in through father’s study, and 
then, through the windows, I saw someone was in 
there. I thought it must be Miss Dessler, so I hid 
behind one of the columns—on the balcony. And 
it wasn’t Miss Dessler. It was Frank Serrano. He 
was kneeling in front of the safe.” 

With this point in her story once passed, poor 
Connie now seemed to find it easier to go on. 

“I knew there was money in the safe. I had 
helped Cynthia to put it in. I knew that Frank 
hadn’t much money, but I couldn’t believe that ” 

“Did you actually see him take this?” asked 
Besant. “From the safe?” 

“No, no!” pleaded the girl. “But he was work¬ 
ing there in front of it. Then suddenly that man¬ 
servant of his came down the hall, tapping with 
his cane. His ankle was sprained. And at once 
Frank got up and left. And then, right after¬ 
ward, Miss Dessler came out of father’s room. She 
looked into the study and went off, too.” 

“Miss Connie,” asked Besant in a very low voice, 




268 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“do you know how long Serrano has had this man, 
this Swiss?” 

“Only a few weeks. The last time he came up 
he had another, an Englishman.” 

“And all this happened,” asked Besant, “before 
you came to the island?” 

“Yes, that,” answered Connie, “but I didn’t 
know where the money was. I hadn’t found it.” 

“But where did you find it?” 

Connie did not answer, and again Besant urged: 
“Please tell me. I really must know.” 

“I—I can’t,” sobbed the girl. “Take it. Please 
take it. Give it to father. Tell him anything you 
like, but don’t ask me any more.” 

“Miss Connie,” replied Besant. “I can’t take this 
at all unless you will tell me where you found it.” 

For a long interval the girl stood silent, then 
choked it out: “It was in Cynthia’s room.” 

Instantly, however, the poor child saw that she 
had made it sound worse than it actually was. 
“Wait, please wait,” she added, hurriedly. “It 
wasn’t Cynthia that had it. She couldn’t have 
known it was there. But when I came back from 
the island I wanted to find out whether they still 
planned to run away. I knew that Cynthia had 
packed a bag. I knew where she had hidden it. 
I went and looked there and the bag was gone, 
but Cynthia’s motor coat was there, all ready, and 
rolled inside it was a coat of Frank’s. I wasn’t 
sure at first, so I took it out. There was something 
in the pocket. I seemed to know what it was. It 
was this money.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


269 


As again she began to weep convulsively in the 
darkness Besant tightened his grasp gently on her 
shoulder. 

“Miss Connie,” he said, “you have done exactly 
the right thing. This money can be returned to 
your father very easily. No one need ever know 
where I got it.” 

“But it isn’t the money,” gasped Connie. “It’s 
Cynthia. She mustn’t go away with him now.” 

“She will not go away with him to-night,” 
assured Besant, quietly. “Do you know where 
they are now?” 

“They were on the terrace when I came back 
from the boathouse, but that was fifteen minutes 
ago.” 

Besant paused a moment and then said, 
simply: “Miss Connie, I have got to turn on a 
light while I examine this package. It may be 
very necessary for me to see you again. Can you 
go down through the little door into the garden 
and wait outside? I will promise you that I will 
be there in three minutes. If I am not there by 
that time you needn’t wait.” 

For a moment the girl did not answer, and 
Besant glanced away. Through the leaded and 
stone-cased windows came the faint gray of the 
starlight, giving in the room a peculiarly eerie and 
monastic effect. Then slowly, in the shadows, 
Besant could see Connie nod her head. Taking 
her by the hand, he led her back through the 
inner rooms and saw her pass safely under the 




270 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


single dim light at the landing of the servants’ 
stairway. 

Closing the door quietly, Besant fumbled his 
way back to his own sitting room and turned on 
the lights. With trembling hands he untied the 
package, which still bore its original address and 
its broken seals. As its contents came to his eyes 
he first stared with alarm, then with slow 
bewilderment, then suddenly he laughed aloud. 

Hastily tying up the package again, he slipped it 
into an inner pocket and went calmly down the 
main stairway. A moment later he had passed 
through the little side corridor and into the garden. 
Outside the doorway he paused, spoke a low word, 
and Connie came up to him at once. Immediately 
Besant held out the package toward her reluctant 
hand. 

“Miss Connie,” he whispered, “you must take 
this package back and put it exactly where you 
found it.” 

In fear, Connie drew away. “But I can’t,” she 
begged. “It mustn’t be there. Do whatever you 
want to Frank, but nothing must happen to 
Cynthia.” 

In a low tone Besant insisted. “Miss Connie,” 
he said, “your father himself brought me here to 
guard your sister. That is just what I am doing. 
So please do exactly as I say.” 

Beluctantly the girl took the package and hid it 
under her cape. Yet still she whispered frightened 
objections: “But suppose she is there? Suppose 
Cynthia is in her room.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


271 


“In that case,” answered Besant, “slip it under 
a pillow, drop it behind a bookcase—do anything 
—but leave it in her room.” 




Chapter L 

T OO FRIGHTENED to offer further objection, 
Connie went back through the doorway. 
Besant waited until he had seen her safely inside, 
then swiftly walked across the damp turf and 
completely around the house. As he approached 
the terrace, on the seaward side, he slackened his 
pace into an appearance of strolling nonchalance, 
but the precaution was quite unnecessary. If, as 
Connie had said, Ruiz Serrano had been on the 
terrace a few minutes before, he was not there 
now. 

Besant glanced up at the Spaniard’s window 
and saw a light. For the moment at least that was 
reasonably reassuring, but the time had come, 
Besant knew, when he must tighten his watch. 
Only one very necessary errand remained before 
he must call in Tim from his outpost at the 
stables and, with Tim’s support, concentrate his 
guard for the night on a single point. 

Entering the house casually by the terrace doors 
and climbing the main staircase, Besant went at 
once to Damon Crewe’s rooms. As they usually 
were, the double doors were ajar for six or eight 
inches, and through the opening Besant could see 
the invalid sitting in bed, while a maid, in white 
cap and apron, was stirring around, preparing the 
room for the night. 


272 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


273 


Besant knocked softly and entered. Damon 
Crewe looked up. 

“Oh, good evening, Besant! You want to see 
me?” 

At a nod, the maid left the room, and Besant 
closed the doors, making sure, this time, to see 
that the door to the dressing room was also closed. 
As he finished, his host was waiting anxiously. 

“Well?” he asked. “You have talked to Cramp?” 

Besant nodded. “And I have also found out 
something else which I can’t explain now. I have 
found out where your money is. You will have 
it to-morrow.” 

Impatiently the invalid raised his hands from 
the bedclothes. “Oh, damn the money!” he 
exploded. “My daughter is all I care about.” 

Besant flushed. “I didn’t mean to put it in just 
that way. But when the money is found I think 
the other matters will be settled also.” 

“But Cramp showed you those pictures?” 
insisted the banker. 

Besant replied with as great a show of 
nonchalance as he could muster. “Yes, I have 
seen them, but there is one thing that Mr. Cramp 
did not seem to notice. That page from La 
Semaine bore the copyright of the American News 
Corporation in one corner. It was not printed in 
France, but was an American edition printed from 
plates shipped to this country.” 

Damon Crewe looked up with excitement. “Do 
you mean to say it wasn’t genuine?” 

“Unhappily,” replied Besant, “it was genuine 




274 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


- 


enough, but Mr. Cramp seemed to intimate that 
the New York police had received it from 
France. The fact probably is that that picture 
sheet was cut out and furnished to them by some 
one in this country, someone who had saved it 
until it suited his purpose. You can rest assured 
that the New York police are not regular readers 
of La Semaine. Whereas if the Paris police had 
sent it they would have sent the French edition.” 

“But the facts remain the same.” 

“Yes, certainly,” answered Besant, “the main 
facts are the same. In brief, Mr. Crewe, on one 
point Mr. Cramp is entirely right. This man must 
be kept under my eye until this thing is cleared 
up. I have let him go too long as it is, but you can 
rest assured that I am going to begin now. Fur¬ 
thermore, I shall have with me my own man, who, 
on occasion, can be one of the ugliest customers 
anyone would care to meet.” 

The invalid turned wearily on his pillow. 
“Thank you for that, Besant,” he answered. “I 
know that I can rely on you, but you can easily 
guess that I shall do very little sleeping to-night.” 
The old gentleman quickly changed his tone. 
“But don’t let me keep you. You ought not to 
stay here.” 

Besant nodded hastily, for the same thought was 
uppermost in his own mind. With a brief, “Good¬ 
night,” and a promise to look in again, he opened 
the doors and passed down the hall, but as he 
passed his own rooms he saw Tim Hannigan 
standing inside at the table. He entered, and 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


275 


closed the door. The lights were still turned up as 
Besant had left them, and under their glare Tim 
stared at his master with a frightened and angry 
face. 

“Where the devil have you been?” Tim 
demanded. “I looked for you everywhere—down 
at the boathouse and all.” 

Besant glanced again at the door. “Not so loud, 
Tim,” he said. “What’s the matter? What’s 
happened?” 

“What’s happened?” repeated Tim. “They’ve 
gypped me. That’s all!” 

“Who’s gypped you?” asked Besant. 

“Miss Sanford and the Switzer,” retorted Tim. 
“They’ve taken the car and they’ve got away!” 




Chapter LI 

F OR a moment Besant’s face became as white 
and as angry as Tim’s. 

“Who was in it?” he demanded, sharply. “How 
many were there?” 

“How should I know?” gasped Tim. “Out there 
in the darkness? I was sitting outside the garage 
when all of a sudden I remembered that I hadn’t 
fed Rexy-” 

“That cursed ferret!” exclaimed Besant. 

“It wasn’t Rexy,” defended Tim, stoutly. “I 
wasn’t gone three minutes. I brought him back 
with me wrapped up in a coat to keep me company 
and then I took a look in the garage to see that 
everything was all right. And there was the 
Switzer again, tap-tapping around with his cane. 
He looked at me, kind of guilty, and then he went 
out. He started up toward the house and then he 
looked over his shoulder and doubled back toward 
the walls. ‘Aha!’ I says. ‘You’re up to some¬ 
thing!’ And so I followed him, sneaking along 
in the dark. It was just a trick and I bit like a 
fool. All of a sudden he stopped dead short and 
turned right around. 

“ ‘What you following me for?’ he asks. 

“ ‘None of your business,’ I says. 

“With that he takes a whirl at me with his cane. 
I makes a dive and he turns and runs like a deer, 
sprained ankle and all. I started after him and 
276 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


277 


got a good hundred yards away when sudden I 
hears a racket behind me and zip! bang! out of the 
garage comes Miss Sanford’s car with Miss San¬ 
ford driving. I could see her head plain against 
the light in the washroom. She changed the 
gears, one, two, three, and was hitting it thirty 
for the gates before I could draw my breath.” 

“And what became of the Swiss?” demanded 
Besant. 

“Oh, the Switzer? I don’t know what became of 
him. All I was thinking of was the car. I beat 
it back as fast as I could, hoping the gates would 
hold ’em, but somebody else must have been there 
and got them open, for the car never stopped a 
flicker—just went shooting out into the sand 
roads outside the walls!” 

Hastily, frantically, Besant was attempting to 
think against time, to patch up his shattered plans. 
Pursuit now would be almost out of the question. 
There would be five or ten different ways in which 
the elopers could turn after reaching Gaylords- 
ville or Black Point. Clinging to one faint ray of 
hope, he continued hurriedly to question Tim. 

“And you didn’t see anyone except Miss San¬ 
ford?” 

“She was all I see/* affirmed Tim, “but some¬ 
body else must have been there to open the gates. 
And how many others-” 

Besant held up his hand and stopped him. 
“Tim,” he ordered, “you stay right here, and don’t 
you dare to move out until I come back.” 

Without another word Besant opened the door 





278 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


and passed down the hall directly to Serrano’s 
room. At the threshold he could see a faint 
sliver of light, but, as he realized now, that might 
mean nothing. Without even pausing to knock, 
he threw open the door and pushed in abruptly. 

The sitting room was certainly empty, and the 
dressing room next to it was dark, but, 
in the bedroom beyond, a shaded light gleamed 
dully at the head of the bed. Casting aside all 
caution, Besant stalked through the intervening 
rooms and looked about him. 

In the bedroom, indeed, there were no signs of 
a hasty flight, or, rather, the room displayed an 
innocence that was highly artful. The bed was 
neatly turned down for the night, a dressing gown 
and a pair of slippers lay ready beside it. In a 
large closet, which stood half open, a number of 
coats remained placidly on their hangers. On 
the little night table, under the lamp, were an 
open book and a pipe with ashes spilling out of 
the bowl. Under the pipe was an opened letter 
and Besant moved toward it He had his hand at 
the table when he heard a matter-of-fact voice 
behind him. 

“Hello, Besant!” said the voice. 

Besant turned sharply. In the door of the dress¬ 
ing room, still in his dinner clothes, stood, calmly 
—Ruiz Serrano. 




Chapter LII 

W ITH the utmost nonchalance in the world 
Serrano stepped forward and turned a 
switch which flooded the room with light. 

“What’s the matter, Besant?” he asked. “Any¬ 
thing that I can do for you?” 

“Now that you are here,” replied Besant, “you 
can tell me where you keep that ‘Hermitage’ 
tobacco.” 

Serrano laughed outright. “Besant,” he ex¬ 
claimed, “that line should have been in a play. 
What a pity that you couldn’t have thought of it 
just a minute earlier. 

“But, certainly,” he added, after a moment’s 
hesitation. “Come out here and I’ll give you all 
you want of it.” 

Turning quietly, he led the way into the sitting 
room. From the drawer of a desk he produced a 
brand-new can of “Hermitage” and offered it to 
Besant. “Take it with you,” he urged. “Or, better 
yet, won’t you sit down and smoke here?” 

So absurdly calm, so completely matter-of-fact, 
was his manner that, before Besant realized what 
he was doing, he found the can of tobacco already 
in his hand and a murmur of thanks on his lips. 
Nevertheless, the undercurrent of thought was too 
strong in the minds of both men for either of 
them to ignore it. For a moment Serrano stood 
279 




280 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


looking straight into Besant’s eyes, then slowly he 
shook his head. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “I am disappointed. I 
gave you my word and I thought you trusted me.” 

Besant flushed. “I did trust you,” he said, “when 
you made the promise. But when your man 
decoys my man away from the gates and then 
your car leaves the grounds at thirty miles an 
hour-” 

Serrano interrupted him with the same baffling 
smile. “My dear Mr. Besant,” he protested, “that 
was not my car. That was Miss Sanford’s. I 
didn’t know that my promise extended to her.” 

“It didn’t,” retorted Besant, “but the car con¬ 
tained your luggage.” 

Serrano flushed in turn. “That,” he admitted, 
“was placed there before Miss Sanford knew of 
my promise. Even as it was, she didn’t think it 
much of a promise, but, personally, I did. That 
I am here now is not due to Miss Sanford. If she 
had had her way, she would have thrown a rope 
over my head and dragged me along, whether 
or no.” 

“And yet your man was still in the trick,” replied 
Besant. 

“Quite so,” confessed Serrano. “I will even 
volunteer the information that I personally opened 
the gates. In doing so I may have broken my 
promise to the extent of eight or ten inches. That 
was why I was not here when you came in. But, 
Mr. Besant, if you are going to use the most 
absurdly melodramatic methods to keep Miss San- 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


281 


ford from doing whatever she pleases, you cannot 
object if she does the same.” 

For answer, Besant burst out sharply, “Ser¬ 
rano,” he demanded, “what in the world are you 
up to, anyway?” 

But if Besant had lost his temper, Serrano had 
not. “I have told you frankly what I am up to. I 
am determined to marry Miss Cynthia Crewe at 
the first possible moment.” 

Besant made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t 
mean that, and you know I don’t. I mean your 
past—your record. Why don’t you come right 
out and tell the truth? I have met you halfway 
and more than halfway. I will tell you frankly 
that if it had not been for me you would have 
been put out of this house to-night, and you might 
have been put out in handcuffs. I have enough 
facts myself to put you in jail.” 

Serrano looked up at him quickly. “You have?” 
he said. “Why don’t you do it?” 

“For two reasons,” replied Besant. “In the first 
place I am here to prevent a scandal in this 
house—not to force one. In the second place, I 
have believed in you from the start. I told you 
that, some hours ago. I have preferred to judge 
your case by the man instead of the facts. 
Serrano, I have had ten years of police experience 
and I have known thousands of crooks. If you 
are one, my whole ten years haven’t taught me 
a thing. On that basis I have been fighting your 
battles ever since I came into the case. But that 
sort of thing can’t go on forever. If you won’t 




282 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


come out and tell me the truth yourself, I will 
simply quit, give way to some one less friendly, 
and let you fight your own battles with them.” 

Besant stopped short and waited; but for a 
moment the other man made no reply. Then 
slowly he held out his hand. 

“Mr. Besant,” he said, “I am not going to ask you 
what you know and what you don’t know. You 
have played fair, and possibly I haven’t.” He 
paused again and then continued. “You seem to 
have fixed in your mind the space of twenty-four 
hours. That is quite enough for me. I made you 
one promise and you didn’t believe it. Just the 
same I will make you another. If, in twenty-four 
hours, you have not found out all you wish to 
know, I will tell you, myself.” 

His hand still remained held out before him, but 
as yet Besant had not taken it. Rather reluctantly, 
he did so now. 

“And in the meantime,” he asked, “your other 
promise remains the same?” 

“Oh, absolutely!” said Serrano, with a smile. 
“Really, Mr. Besant, you seem to have a most sin¬ 
gular idea of my promises.” 




Chapter LIII 


ITH a very sobering .knowledge of how much 



vv he was leaving to faith, Besant returned to 
his own rooms. He was also possessed by a very 
live knowledge that whatever was going to hap¬ 
pen would happen within a very few hours. Ser¬ 
rano’s frank promise, as well as his own intuition, 
convinced him of that. In every tense situation 
there comes a moment in which the very atmos¬ 
phere is charged with a sense of impending crash, 
and, quite apart from the evidence in his hands, 
Besant would have been dumb and blind if he 
had not felt this situation now creeping nearer 
and nearer to its climax. 

Tim Hannigan, wandering nervously around the 
room, broke into his meditations. “Mr. Besant,” 
he pleaded, “I’ve got to go down again to the sta¬ 
bles. Only a minute. I’ll be right back.” 

“Why have you got to go?” demanded Besant. 

Tim grinned guiltily. “You see, it’s Rexy. I 
left him there on the ground done up in my over¬ 
coat. It’s a forty-five dollar coat. If I don’t let 
Rexy out pretty soon, he’ll either chew the coat all 
to pieces or else he’ll smother to death.” 

Besant grunted a laugh. “All right,” he said, 
“but for Heaven’s sake don’t make it more than 
five minutes. And, Tim-” 

Already at the door to the hall, Tim turned and 
his master added: “Tim, don’t go out that way. 


283 





284 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


There’s another door at the end of the bedroom 
that leads to a service stairway. I don’t know 
where the other end leads, but you can soon find 
out.” 

Willingly enough, Tim stumbled his way through 
the darkness of the inner rooms. Besant watched 
him fumblingly open the door to the stairway, then 
close it behind him; but for a moment a dim square 
of light had shown at the end of the room and 
with that square of light had come to Besant a 
sudden recollection. And with recollection had 
come inspiration. The recollection had been of 
Connie. The inspiration had been that of the 
balcony of which she had told him an hour before. 
Excitedly Besant leaped to his feet. His whole 
course of strategy had come to him in a single 
flash and now began to elaborate itself in leaps 
and bounds. When Tim returned, a few minutes 
later, Besant was pacing back and forth across the 
room. 

Triumphantly Tim held up an overcoat, rolled 
in the crook of his arm. 

“He hadn’t hurt it a bit,” he announced. “Just 
the same, it’s a wonder that he didn’t smother.” 

Besant glanced absently at the overcoat and 
nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m glad of that. 
Now, Tim, you’re going to begin your real job 
as night watchman.” 

Tim made a good-natured grimace. “I don’t 
know as I like the idea of sitting up all night,” 
he said, “but just the same, if I catch that Switzer 
I’ll night-watchman him! 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


285 


“And say, Mr. Besant,” added Tim in a lower 
voice. “I don’t know just what you’re up to, but 
while I was down at the garage I thought I’d get 
that gun I spoke of and bring it along.’’ 

Besant held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he 
ordered. “If anyone needs it, I’ll need it more 
than you.” 

Reluctantly Tim drew forth a heavy, squat, blue- 
steel revolver, a typical thug’s weapon, short and 
ugly as a rattlesnake, but of colossal bore. Next 
to the ferret it was evidently the pride of Tim’s 
heart. Besant glanced at the chambers, saw it was 
loaded, and then slipped it into his own hip 
pocket. 

“Now, Tim,” he said, “listen carefully. I want 
you to do just one very simple thing. I am going 
out of the room for a few minutes. While I am 
gone, leave the door open and the lights just as 
they are now. Fuss around here as if you were 
cleaning up. Empty the ash trays, whistle a tune, 
do anything you like. But keep your eye on me 
as long as I am in sight. Almost opposite this 
room is a door. When I go out I will stand in 
front of it long enough to light a cigarette. Watch 
me and remember which door it is. That’s all 
you’ve got to do—remember that door.” 

“And is that the room where I spend the night?” 
asked Tim. 

“You may spend part of it there,” replied Bes¬ 
ant, “but in the meantime I’ve got a lot of other 
things for you to do.” 




Chapter LIV 

E XACTLY according to his plan, Besant opened 
the door to the hall and, leaving it open, 
strolled carelessly down the hall, stopping before 
the study which contained the safe long enough 
to light a cigarette. Behind him he could feel, 
rather than see, that Tim was faithfully obeying 
instructions. As he passed slowly down the huge 
main staircase he could even hear Tim begin to 
whistle a tune. 

On the lower floor the house gave every appear¬ 
ance of being deserted, although there was no 
special significance in that. In the Crewe house 
it seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. 
At least the lights had not been lowered for the 
night. A great globe still shed an indirect white 
glow over the whole rotunda of the staircase, and 
a single bulb, fiercely beset by moths and other 
insects, still flared outside the screened doors on 
the terrace. 

Keeping his appearance of an idle stroll, Besant 
walked out on the terrace and down the stone 
steps to the lawn. From the darkness he looked 
back and studied the second-floor balcony, which, 
broken by columns of a portico, stretched across 
the whole main front of the house, terminating 
in two jutting wings. The balcony suited his pur¬ 
pose even better than he had hoped. From it 
opened French windows not only to Mr. Crewe’s 
286 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


287 


dressing room and his study, but, on the other side, 
to Serrano’s rooms as well. Between these, higher 
and arch-shaped windows gave a view on to the 
staircase itself. 

Completely satisfied, indeed almost elated as 
he felt the hour of his final stroke drawing near, 
Besant went back to the terrace and into the 
house. At one side of the rotunda he had already 
observed a little writing room with a desk, amply 
furnished with the now-familiar gray-green sta¬ 
tionery. Hastily scrawling a note, he went to 
the terrace door and pressed the button which he 
had seen used by Dorothy Sanford that morning. 
After a long delay a rather disheveled manservant 
appeared, looking from room to room. At the 
sight of Besant he stopped hastily and straightened 
into some form of respect. 

“Did you ring, sir?” 

“Yes,” answered Besant. “Will you please take 
this note up to Mr. Cramp? Also, will you find 
Miss Dessler and ask her to come down here at 
once?” 

The man looked at him doubtfully. “I am afraid, 
sir, that Miss Dessler has retired. She always 
does, very early.” 

“I am sorry,” insisted Besant, “but it is very nec¬ 
essary that she come down. Tell her that I have 
instructions for her from Mr. Crewe.” 

“Very good, sir,” said the man, and turned to 
the stairs. 

Again ensued a long delay, in which Besant 
strolled into the writing room, then back to the 




288 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


terrace, then into the writing room again. He 
lighted another cigarette. It was fully fifteen min¬ 
utes before he heard a firm, regular step on the 
stairs, and, a moment later, the secretary was 
standing before him, looking at him in her usual 
cold, disdainful way. 

“You wished to see me?” she asked. 

“Yes, Miss Dessler,” replied Besant. “Will you 
kindly step in here?” 

The woman hesitated a moment, then followed 
him into the little writing room. Besant turned 
and motioned her to a chair. 

“Miss Dessler,” he said, “we might as well both 
lay our cards on the table at once. Are you a de¬ 
tective ?” 

The woman looked at him fixedly for a moment. 
Her expression did not even change. “Yes, I am,” 
she answered. “Was that all you wished to 
know?” 

“And you are employed by the Zankrouf agen¬ 
cy?” pursued Besant. 

At that name the woman did start slightly, but 
immediately she recovered herself. “I have been 
employed by the Zankrouf Bureau,” she answered. 
“At present I am doing work for private indi¬ 
viduals. Why do you ask me these questions?” 

“Because,” replied Besant, firmly, “I am doing 
the same sort of work myself. I intend to make 
an arrest in this house to-night. If there is to be 
any conflict of authority, I want it straightened 
out right now. If you insist, we can carry the 
matter at once to either Mr. Cramp or Mr. Crewe.” 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


289 


The woman shook her head. “I do not think,” 
she replied, “that there will be any conflict of 
authority. Is that all you wished?” 

“That is all I can ask,” answered Besant. “If 
you care to volunteer it, I could use your assist¬ 
ance. I am all alone in this case except for one 
man, and he is of no use except as a ‘strong-arm.’ ” 

The woman smiled slightly. “I have seen him. 
What do you want me to do?” 

“Only one thing,” answered Besant. “Be in 
readiness all night. You will know well enough 
when I have copped my man. I can handle him 
easily enough, but Mr. Crewe is not in a condi¬ 
tion to be excited. When you hear my little affair 
start, can I rely on you to go at once to Mr. Crewe’s 
room and reassure him that I have the matter 
entirely in hand? I have just sent a note to Mr. 
Cramp, asking him to be ready also.” 

“Yes, I can do that. Is that all?” 

“That is all.” 




Chapter LV 

G IVING the secretary time to ascend the stairs 
alone, Besant idly finished his cigarette on 
the terrace, then returned to the second floor. As 
he reached the upper hall the same manservant 
who had answered his ring was passing along, 
putting out the lights one by one. At his own 
rooms, Besant found that, for once, Tim Hannigan 
had followed instructions to the letter. Still 
whistling softly, he had apparently done every¬ 
thing except pack the bag. Besant closed the door. 

“Now, Tim,” he announced, “we begin to work. 
Your next job is to go back to the gates.” 

Tim looked at him in blank dismay. “Mr. Bes¬ 
ant!” he exclaimed. “Have I got to go back 
there?” 

“Yes, you have,” ordered Besant, peremptorily, 
“but you may not have to stay there long. Keep 
yourself in the darkness and first go and see 
whether the service gates are still open. If they 
are, leave them so. Keep an eye on the main gates 
as well, and if Miss Sanford’s car or any other 
comes back, get up here and let me know at once.” 
“But where will you be?” asked Tim. 

“I showed you that door across the hall,” an¬ 
swered Besant. “That leads into a little room. 
On the other side of that room are long glass doors 
which lead to a balcony. I shall be out on the 
balcony. If Miss Sanford’s car comes back, sneak 
290 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


291 


into the house, go into that room across the hall 
and out to the balcony. If, by any chance, you 
can’t get into the house, come around under the 
balcony and call to me very quietly. But don’t 
do that except as a very last resort. Now do you 
understand?” 

“Sure, I understand,” replied Tim. 

His master was not so certain, but, at any rate, 
Tim was following the least important of the 
clews. If he couldn’t do much good he couldn’t 
do very much harm. As Tim turned to leave, 
Besant called him back for one last word. 

“And, Tim,” he warned, “if you should happen 
to see your friend the Switzer, leave him strictly 
alone. To-morrow, if you still want to do it, you 
can beat him up to your heart’s content” 




Chapter LVI 

T HE instant that Tim had left, Besant slipped 
off his dinner jacket and replaced it by a 
heavy sweater, a tweed golfing coat, and a cap. 
The night, so far, had been mild and balmy, but, 
with the mists of the seafront only a hundred 
yards away, a sentry-go on the balcony might, 
before morning, become a very chilly affair. In 
his hip pocket Besant still carried Tim’s heavy 
revolver, and to this he added a small hand search¬ 
light. 

With one last glance at his room, Besant turned 
out his lights and slipped into the hall. The high 
white bowl of light over the double main stair¬ 
case had been extinguished and the huge rotunda 
was now a great cavern of shadows, with only a 
faint night lamp on the floor below and similar 
little dim lights at long intervals in the upper 
hall. 

Besant stepped slowly and silently across the 
hall to the study, opened the door, and closed it 
again behind him. A single flick with his search¬ 
light showed no apparent change in the room since 
the time when he and Cramp had been there be¬ 
fore, and, preferring to work in the darkness, he 
crept to the long French windows and tried the 
catches. There were three of these windows, 
opening with handles which moved long bolts 
at both the top and the bottom. Besant tried them 
292 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


293 


all, for he wanted no chance for bungling when 
Tim should come along. All three of the windows 
opened freely, and, satisfied, Besant slipped 
through the middle one on to the narrow tile 
pavement of the balcony. 

A faint, slow breeze of night air, curiously dry, 
touched his cheeks and his hands as he emerged 
into the darkness. It brought a scent of the sun- 
dried turf in front of the house rather than of 
the sea. There was something about it oddly calm¬ 
ing and oddly reassuring, and, in the welcome 
spring-like air, Besant stood for a moment, letting 
it play on his face, until his eyes and his nerves 
could be accustomed to the darkness. Then, grad¬ 
ually, cautiously, he began to take stock of his 
situation. 

Behind him, the interior of the little study was 
as black as ink. Besant could hardly see a foot 
inside the glass doors, but to his right and to his 
left showed lights from other rooms of the house. 
Those to the right were in Damon Crewe’s long 
bedroom, which jutted out into a wing. Those to 
the left must be in Serrano’s sitting room. Be¬ 
tween them, at intervals, were four immense pil¬ 
lars, which formed the great stone colonnade of 
the house. 

Making no quick motions, keeping to the shad¬ 
ows, and taking only a step at a time, Besant crept 
slowly to the first of the columns, from which he 
could look in at the arch-shaped windows which 
gave on the great rotunda of the staircase. The 
result was reasonably satisfactory. Once he had 




294 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


found a position which avoided the glints on the 
glass, he discovered that he could see faintly the 
top of the staircase and four or five steps down. 

Again slowly, Besant crept to the second of the 
columns and then to the third. He raised himself 
cautiously on his toes. He could now look squarely 
into Serrano’s sitting room. 

At first he saw nothing. The room remained as 
calm and as innocent as when Besant had last 
entered it. However, peering a little more boldly 
around the column, Besant could see Serrano him¬ 
self moving back and forth in an inner room. 
Suddenly Serrano turned squarely around and 
walked out into the sitting room. Here he paused 
for a moment idly and then sat down at the cen¬ 
ter table, his head in his hands. For three minutes 
at least the two men remained there, one outside, 
one inside the glass. 

Then suddenly Serrano looked up, rose to his 
feet, and Besant slipped behind his column, stand¬ 
ing absolutely rigid. He could no longer see into 
the room, but he could hear the long bolt scrape 
at the top and the bottom of the glass door. The 
door was opened. For minutes which seemed like 
hours Besant could feel that Serrano was stand¬ 
ing there at the open doorway. Then abruptly 
the bolts scraped again and the door was closed. 

Again it was minutes before Besant dared to 
peer around the surface of the column, but now all 
was quiet. He could see Serrano passing again to 
the inner room. He watched him return and 
again sit moodily at the table, his face in*his hands. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


295 


Besant dropped quietly to the tile flooring be¬ 
side the column and sat in its shadow. At last 
he found himself at his post of guard. At this 
point he could remain until Serrano himself made 
some decisive move. 




Chapter LVII 

S LOWLY, endlessly, began to drag the min¬ 
utes and hours of the night. Neither the man 
inside nor the man outside the room changed 
position. The little dry breeze died down at in¬ 
tervals, and for a brief moment would come to 
Besant a damp, salt breath from the rocks on 
the shore. Then again the land breeze would rise 
up with its steady, unvarying scent of dry, heated 
turf. From the little harbor a ship’s clock on one 
of the cabin launches at anchor suddenly chimed 
out the hour— ting- ting, ting-ting , ting-ting , ting- 
ting —eight bells. Midnight. From time to time 
came the swish of the waves on the rocks, vividly 
clear, then again almost inaudible. Far out at 
sea sounded, just once, a deep, mournful hoo-o-o 
from a coasting steamer. Then silence again. 

The ship’s clock had sounded one bell and two, 
when suddenly Besant heard a low whistle in the 
darkness below him. Inside the room he saw 
Serrano look up, stare about him, then rise from 
the table and go to the inner rooms. Almost in¬ 
stantaneously from the other end of the balcony 
came the scratching of a bolt and a whisper from 
Tim: 

“Mr. Besant! Where are you? Mr. Besant!” 
Besant stepped quickly along the balcony, but 
Tim was already outside. 

“They’ve come,” whispered Tim. “Miss San- 
296 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


297 


ford’s car has come back, and her with it. With¬ 
out no lights. The Switzer met them at the gates. 
They came up to the house. They are in the house 
now. They came in the little side door. They left 
it open.” # * 

Besant nodded quickly. “All right, Tim,” he 
whispered. “You follow me. Stay just behind 
me, but keep out of sight if you can.” 

He looked at Tim and saw that he was still 
carrying his overcoat rolled in the crook of his 
arm. 

“Get rid of that coat!” whispered Besant. 

Tim took the roll of coat and tucked it carefully 
inside the study door from which he had just 
emerged. From the outside Besant softly closed 
the door. Turning, he crept stealthily back along 
the balcony. Serrano’s lights had gone out! 

Besant turned in his tracks and glanced 
through the higher arched windows over the stair¬ 
case. He waited a minute, but saw no one 
moving in the halls or on the stairs. He knew 
that he must lose no more time. He opened again 
the door to the study, motioned Tim inside. In 
the close air and pitch darkness of the little room 
he could hear Tim’s excited, sibilant breathing 
and he whispered again: 

“Now follow me at a little distance. Bemember, 
keep out of sight.” 

Opening the door to the hall, Besant slipped 
immediately to the head of the main stairway 
and down the right-hand staircase itself. Keeping 
close to the curving walls, he reached the lower 




298 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


hall without making a sound. His objective was 
the little open door at the other side of the house; 
but suddenly, in the semidarkness, he saw a figure 
moving near the end of the hall, toward the big 
front doors. 

Besant stopped short. His eyes gazing tensely 
the length of the hall, he saw a faint sliver of 
light as a door was opened for six or eight inches. 
Apparently at a signal the figure slipped through 
the gap of light and the door was swiftly closed 
again. Besant started forward and crept down the 
hallway. He was only ten feet from the door 
which he had seen opened when, sharply, a hand 
gripped his arm from the darkness and a harsh, 
strange voice spoke in his ear: 

“Just a minute, sir. Where are you going?” 

With a violent twist of his body Besant jerked 
his arm free, and as he turned, a foot from his own 
he saw the tense face of the Swiss. 

Instinctively Besant’s hand leaped to the big 
revolver in his pocket, but the next minute, as if 
shot from a catapult, past his eyes whirled a long 
black body and the Swiss went down with a crash. 
From the struggling heap at his feet Besant could 
hear Tim’s exultant oaths. 

“I’ve got you now, you damned crook! I’ve got 
you this time!” 

Violently Besant stirred himself into action. 

“Hold him, Tim! Hold him where you’ve got 
him!” he cried and he himself ran forward to 
the door where he had seen the sliver of light. 
He turned the handle. The door was locked. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


299 


Inside he heard silence, then a low murmur of 
voices. He threw his weight against the huge door, 
but he might as well have thrown it against a stone 
wall. Within continued steadily, hurriedly, the 
murmur of voices, then suddenly they stopped. 
Fiercely Besant took the big revolver from his 
pocket and with its butt began to pound on the 
heavy door. 

“Open that door,” he ordered, “or I’ll shoot it 
open.” 

Another moment of silence, then slowly the 
knob of the door was turned from the inside. A 
key scraped and the door was opened a few 
inches then quickly closed. The lights in the 
room had gone out but on the outside, in the dim 
hall, stood Ruiz Serrano. 

“Well, Mr. Besant,” he said, “what do you 
want?” 

“Come here,” commanded Besant, sharply. 

Quietly Serrano obeyed the command and 
stepped further into the hall. 

“Mr. Besant—” he exclaimed but before he could 
finish the sentence, from the upper hall there 
suddenly came an unearthly shriek. 

Equally startled, Serrano and Besant stared at 
each other and both stepped forward, but Besant 
grasped the other man by the arm. He forced him 
against the wall where Tim was now holding the 
Swiss with a wrestler’s twist. 

“Stand there!” commanded Besant. He took the 
big blue revolver by its barrel and gave it to Tim. 




300 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Tim,” he ordered, “hold those men there until 
I come back.” 

Without even waiting to see how Tim might 
obey his orders, Besant leaped up the stairs. As 
he went up, lights began to flash out above him. 
At the end of the upper hall the doors of Damon 
Crewe’s room were standing wide open. White¬ 
faced, the invalid was staring from his bed. At 
the door of the little study stood Arthur Cramp— 
fully dressed, his hand on the switch of the lights. 
As Besant reached him he snapped them on and 
disclosed a strange tableau. Inside the study, at 
one side of the room, was the door of the safe, 
swinging wide open. At the other wall crouched 
Miss Dessler in abject terror. At her feet a small, 
white, uncanny shape writhed and twisted, then 
suddenly disappeared. 




Chapter LVIII 


T the same moment other figures began to 



appear from the other end of the hall—a 
frightened butler, half dressed; a woman’s figure 
which appeared at a doorway and then vanished. 
From his own room Damon Crewe began to call. 
Besant walked the few steps to the door. 

“Mr. Crewe,” he said, “everything is perfectly 
all right. Your daughter is safe and is in the house. 
If you care to have it, this matter can all be 
settled up in a very few moments. Is it possible 
for you to come out here?” 

For answer the old gentleman tried convulsively 
to rise, and Besant turned back to the study door. 

“Mr. Cramp,” he ordered, “kindly go and help 
Mr. Crewe.” 

Cramp and the frightened butler hastened into 
the bedroom, and Besant went to the top of the 
stairs. 

“Tim,” he called, “bring those men up here 
now.” 

From below there came a moment of silence 
and then a string of angry words in Tim’s voice. 
At the point of his revolver, Serrano and the 
Swiss were marched up the stairs. Supported by 
Cramp and the butler, Damon Crewe was wheeled 
slowly from his room. 

Besant turned to the banker. “Mr. Crewe,” he 


301 




302 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


said, “I think that first Miss Dessler had better 
tell you her story.” 

Still gasping with fright, the secretary came to 
the door of the study and into the hall. She began 
to speak wildly in rushing, choking tones. 

“Mr. Besant told me what he was going to do 
to-night and told me to be ready, Mr. Crewe, where 
I could go to you in case of alarm. I heard the 
noise in the halls and came in here first. I 
wanted to see if everything was all right with the 
safe. I knew you had money there. The door 
was open. I knew it had been broken into. I was 
going to call out to Mr. Besant, when suddenly 
I felt something touch me and a thing like a great 
white snake went crawling over my feet. That 
was what made me scream-” 

Besant held up his hand and stopped her. He 
still spoke in calm, even tones. “She is perfectly 
correct, Mr. Crewe. As you know, yourself, a 
package of money was taken from your safe.” He 
turned sharply to Serrano. “Where is that package 
now, Serrano? Is it still in your overcoat? I will 
send and get it.” 

Serrano shook his head. “No such trouble, Mr. 
Besant. You will find the package in my inner 
pocket—right here.” 

Not daring to look in the other man’s face, 
Besant put his hand into Serrano’s pocket and 
drew forth the long, thin package still bearing its 
express seals. Curtly he tore off the wrappings 
and held the contents before Damon Crewe’s 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


303 


eyes. Arthur Cramp, looking over the banker’s 
shoulder, gasped out a word: 

“Paper! Nothing but paper!” 

“Exactly,” replied Besant. “But please read 
what is written on it.” 

Besant pointed with his finger to some penciled 
words on the paper, and Arthur Cramp read them 
aloud: f 

“To whom it may concern. On or about June 26, this 
package will be discovered on my person or in my be¬ 
longings. Before it is used as evidence against me I 
suggest that a search be made in the safe from which 
it was taken. The money will be found there, quite in¬ 
tact. As often as it is taken out and hidden in my lug¬ 
gage I shall merely have to recover it and put it back 
again. 

“(Signed) Francisco Ruiz y Serrano.” 

As Cramp finished, Damon Crewe stared at 
Serrano. 

“What does all this mean, sir?” he demanded. 
“Who are you, anyway? What are you trying 
to do?” 

Serrano hesitated a moment, then spoke 
quietly: “I am just what I pretend to be, Mr. 
Crewe—a private citizen and a professional 
musician. That is absolutely all. But since Mr. 
Besant has forced this issue I will tell you both at 
once. Until I came to this country four years ago 
I was an officer in the French army and later a 
member of the secret service of the French foreign 
office.” He paused again, then added, “And if 
it will make any difference to you, sir, I will also 




304 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


repeat what I thought you already knew—that I 
am the son of the Duke of Prada.” 

At the name, the old gentleman started, his 
face growing whiter and whiter. He swayed a 
moment and Arthur Cramp moved closer, to 
support him, but Damon Crewe waved him away. 

“The Duke of Prada,” he repeated, slowly. For 
him, indeed, with that single name, the whole 
story seemed to be at an end, but Arthur Cramp 
burst in pettishly. 

“How can you prove what you say?” 

Before Serrano could answer, a broad. Middle 
Western voice spoke from his side. The voice 
came from “the Swiss,” still standing under Tim’s 
guard. 

“I can prove it for him, Mr. Cramp, and if I’m 
not enough, there are two other men down below 
who can do it.” 

“And who are you?” demanded Cramp. 

“The Switzer” smiled. “My name is Lawrence 
McCarthy and I am a federal agent—of the Depart¬ 
ment of Justice.” He tapped his pocket. “I’ve got 
my credentials right here, if you want to look at 
them.” 

Besant glanced at him curiously. He held out 
his hand and the officer gave him a little black 
book. Besant examined its contents, then showed 
them to Damon Crewe and to Cramp. “These are 
all right,” he said. “This man is just what he 
says he is.” 

Besant turned back to “the Swiss” and nodded 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


305 


his head toward Miss Dessler, who still stood at 
the door of the little room. 

“And is that the lady,” he asked, “for whom you 
are looking?” 

“That’s the lady,” replied McCarthy, “as soon as 
this gunman of yours will let me go.” 

The secretary shrank back again to the door¬ 
way. 

“Mr. Crewe!” she cried, “this is nonsense! I am 
a detective myself, employed by-” 

Besant stepped toward her sharply. “Be still,” 
he ordered. He turned back to his host. “Yes, 
Mr. Crewe, she may have been a detective once— 
employed by the so-called Zankrouf Bureau— 
which is really the dirtiest blackmailing organiza¬ 
tion in the city of New York.” 

Again the woman struggled to pass him and face 
her employer. “Mr. Crewe,” she shouted, “it’s a 
lie! It was Serrano there who opened the safe. 
Ask your own daughter, Miss Connie. She saw 
him. Examine it now. You will find the lock 
stuffed with paper.” 

Apparently hearing nothing, or caring little, for 
what she was saying, Damon Crewe stared blankly 
at her for a moment and then looked vaguely 
toward Besant. Besant turned to Cramp. 

“Mr. Cramp, you had better find out right now 
whether or not that statement is true. Look in 
the hole of the safe where the bolt slides. If you 
find any paper there, please bring it here.” 

Stiffly and suspiciously Cramp went into the 
study and examined the safe. “Yes,” he called, 




306 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“there is something here. It feels like paper.” 

“Pry it out,” ordered Besant. “Now bring it 
here.” 

The lawyer did as he was told and, bringing a 
wad of paper, handed it to Besant, who unfolded 
it and handed it back. Again he pointed to some 
pencil marks on the new bit of paper and Cramp 
read aloud: 

“This paper was placed here by Royal Besant with 
compliments to Miss Dessler or to anyone else who may 
be idiot enough to suppose that a real safe robber would 
leave a paper in his own handwriting.” 

“But where,” demanded Cramp, “is the money?” 

“The money,” replied Besant, “is right there in 
the safe, exactly where Mr. Serrano put it this 
noon—with Miss Connie as an unintentional 
witness. But if my servant’s pet ferret had not 
scared Miss Dessler, I wouldn’t have answered for 
its being there now. 

“Now Mr. McCarthy—” began Besant, but before 
he could continue, he was interrupted by Damon 
Crewe’s sharp voice. 

“I’ve had enough of this, Mr. Besant. You and 
the officers can straighten out that matter of the 
money between you. I don’t want to hear any 
more about it to-night.” 

For a moment the old gentleman gazed fixedly 
at Serrano. “Young man,” he ordered, “I wish you 
to come to my rooms at once. And, Mr. Besant, 
I want you to summon my daughter.” 

With a curt gesture to his butler, the old gentle¬ 
man was wheeled slowly back to his room and 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


307 


the double doors were closed behind him. Mc¬ 
Carthy, the federal agent, had already moved to 
the door of the study where Miss Dessler stood 
sullenly waiting. Besant nodded to the officer. 

“I think,” he suggested, “that it might be just as 
well for you to take that woman out of the house 
at once. If you want a car my man will drive 
you.” 

“The Switzer” looked back at him with a grin. 
“Do you think, sir,” he asked, “that it’s safe to 
trust your man and me together in the dark?” 

“Oh, don’t be afraid of me, Polly,” broke in 
Tim. “All I wanted was one good whack at you. 
I’ve had that and now we’re all square.” 

Waiting until the two men and the woman had 
passed out of sight in the lower hall, Besant 
nodded to Serrano. The latter followed him to 
the head of the stairs, where Besant leaned toward 
him and spoke in a very low voice. 

“Serrano,” he said, “where is Miss Crewe? Is 
she with Dorothy Sanford in that room down¬ 
stairs ?” 

Serrano grinned. “She is,” he answered, “and, 
if you will go down, you can release four very 
anxious people.” He paused a moment, glanced 
toward the double doors at the end of the hall, and 
then added: “Besant, don’t envy me what I’ye 
got to face now, when I meet Mr. Crewe. Cynthia 
and I were married in that room downstairs, ten 
minutes ago!” 




Chapter LIX 

A GRAY leaden light and a strong suggestion 
of fog from the sea were still in the air out¬ 
side the open windows when Tim Iiannigan came 
to call Royal Besant on the following morning. 
“Call,” not “waken,” would certainly have been 
the word, for Besant had been in his bed less than 
an hour, staring, open-eyed at the ceiling. Tim 
Hannigan also showed strong marks of a sleep¬ 
less night, but at least it had not affected his 
buoyancy. 

“It’s all right, Mr. Besant,” he announced. “Fve 
got him at last! And where do you think I found 
him? Right in that same little room, ’cross the 
hall, hiding under the bookcase!” 

Besant started up on his pillows. “Found who ?” 
he demanded. 

“Rexy,” replied Tim. “You know I lost him 
when I laid him down last night in my overcoat— 
just before we started the fighting.” Tim shook 
his head with his usual grin. “Ain’t you going to 
give Rexy a medal of honor, when you come to 
hand out the prizes? Smokes! what a fright he 
did give that woman!” Tim gazed thoughtfully 
at his master for a moment and then continued in 
a more serious tone. “Say, Mr. Besant,” he 
demanded, “don’t you think it’s about time you 
let me in on the secrets?” 

308 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


309 


“Why, Tim,” laughed Besant, “I thought you 
got all the news just as soon as it happened.” 

“Well, I ain’t got this news,” retorted Tim. “At 
least I ain’t got all of it. I know that the Switzer 
is a government bull and that Mr. Serrano is king 
of Spain or something of that kind. I know that 
Miss What’s-her-name is a bad egg and that the 
Switzer and I and two other officers took her to 
Gaylordsville and put her in the jug. But when 
I left here last night you and Mr. Serrano were just 
squaring off for a shooting match. When I gets 
back, you two are drinking champagne, old Mr. 
Crewe is laughing his head off in his wheel-chair, 
and Miss Sanford is playing ‘Hail to the Bride’ on 
the grand piano. And now you ask me do I want 
an explanation!” 

Besant laughed. “Tim,” he said, “there is an 
old saying, ‘If the mountain will not come to 
Mohammed, Mohammed will have to go to the 
mountain.’ ” 

“That may be all very well,” replied Tim, “but 
just the same it’s a fine way of saying nothing.” 

“In this case,” replied Besant, “it is a good way 
of saying everything, for that is exactly what 
caused all the rumpus last night. As you know 
yourself, Tim, Miss Cynthia Crewe and Mr. Ser¬ 
rano have been very anxious to be married for a 
long time. They have had a license, and our neigh¬ 
bor, Miss Sanford, had hunted up a young Harvard 
man, a friend of her own and a justice of the peace, 
who had promised to marry them. But Mr. Ser¬ 
rano had made a promise that he would not leave 




310 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


the grounds for twenty-four hours. ‘All right,’ 
said Miss Sanford, ‘if they can’t be married out¬ 
side the house they will have to be married mside 
it.’ So, with the help of your friend the Switzer, 
she slipped over to Gaylordsville, brought back 
two more government agents who were needed 
here and at the same time brought back the jus¬ 
tice. While I was hammering at that door down¬ 
stairs and you were slowly killing the Switzer, 
they were saying ‘I do’ inside the room and the 
marriage was over.” 

“But what about this woman we jugged?” de-, 
manded Tim. “And what about Mr. Serrano being 
a French spy or something?” 

“Mr. Serrano,” replied Besant, “is the son of a 
Spanish nobleman—the Duke of Prada. If he 
wished to do it, Mr. Serrano could call himself the 
Marquis of Lanz, but, years ago, his father backed 
the wrong party at home. He fought for a gentle¬ 
man called Don Carlos, who wanted to be king of 
Spain. Don Carlos lost the war and Mr. Ser¬ 
rano’s family had to get out and live in a place 
called Pau, in southern France.” 

Besant paused a moment and looked sternly at 
his valet. “Tim,” he continued, “I am afraid that 
in his early days Mr. Serrano’s career was very 
much like your own. He had a great fondness for 
the sporting life. What little money he had he 
took immediately to Monte Carlo and lost it all. 
After that he had to earn his living by taking 
another name and playing a violin in the cafes of 
Paris. When the war broke out he became an 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


311 


officer in the French army, but, not being a French¬ 
man by birth, they thought he could be of more use 
in the secret service. After the war he continued 
in the service, and one of the things he did was to 
bust up a gang of high-life swindlers. But, to get 
the evidence, he had to become a member of the 
gang and be locked in prison along with the rest. 
Some of the gang were still at large and he couldn’t 
afford to get the others suspicious until he had 
found where they were. One of the bunch was a 
Spanish dancer called ‘The Firefly’-” 

Instantly Tim held up his hand. “Now, Mr. 
Besant, just stop a moment. If that woman we 
caught last night is a Spanish dancer and a firefly. 
I’m a tenor and my name is A1 Jolson.” 

Besant laughed. “No, Tim. That woman we 
caught last night is an Englishwoman who was 
only a very small and distant member of the 
gang. She didn’t work with the others. Her job 
was to scout ahead—appear very proper, drink tea 
and knit sweaters at fashionable resorts, and be¬ 
come acquainted with wealthy people. And she 
was one of those who got away. Another who got 
away was a man—the real brains of the crowd. 
Apparently both of them came to this country, 
got in touch with each other, and started up their 
old tricks.” 

“But have they got the man yet?” asked Tim. 
“The main squeeze?” 

“Yes,” answered Besant, “they got him ten days 
ago in New Orleans and they traced him largely 
by letters sent by this Dessler woman. With that 





312 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


man behind the bars, Mr. Serrano decided that he 
was free to go ahead with his own plans and get 
married as soon as possible. You understand, 
Tim, that Mr. Serrano himself had been out of 
that sort of work for several years. He was merely 
trying to make a name for himself with his violin. 
When he spotted this Dessler woman quietly work¬ 
ing her way into the family he notified the authori¬ 
ties in Washington, and they sent your Swiss 
friend, McCarthy, to work on this end of the case. 
But, long before that, the woman herself must have 
spotted Mr. Serrano, and for over a year she used 
every possible method to get rid of him. She 
wrote blackmailing letters and had them posted 
all over the country. She had learned how to do 
it by working for an agency which makes a busi¬ 
ness of doing just that sort of thing, which frames 
up the evidence for divorce cases when it can’t 
secure it legitimately. She sent the police a hint 
of the ‘Firefly’ story in France and finally she tried 
to fake a robbery of three thousand dollars and 
plant the evidence on Mr. Serrano. By that time 
she must have known that the man behind her 
had either skipped or been captured, for her job 
with the safe was very crude work and that was 
the trap into which she fell, herself.” 

“But what,” asked Tim, “were they planning to 
pull off up here?” 

“Apparently their old game,” replied Besant. 
“Miss Dessler was planted, a year ago, in Mr. 
Cramp’s office to get a knowledge of Mr. Crewe’s 
affairs. With Mr. Crewe’s health rapidly failing, 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


313 


{ 


they evidently thought that it would be easy to 
loot the estate by working into the confidence of 
some of the—well, more susceptible members of 
the family.” 

“But why,” persisted Tim, “did the Switzer pull 
all that bunk about a sprained ankle and blood 
poison?” 

“I wondered that myself,” answered Besant, 
“until I asked Mr. Serrano. He told me that when 
he himself decided to run away and get married, 
somebody had to remain to keep an eye on this 
Dessler woman. Your friend the Switzer really 
did twist his ankle a little, two nights ago, and the 
simplest way was to make the injury worse than 
it actually was. No one would put a sick man out 
of the house, and if Mr. Serrano had had to leave 
before matters came to a head, McCarthy intended 
to be in such pain that he couldn’t be moved. And 
so, Tim,” concluded Besant, “that is the story.” 

Tim stood for a moment scratching his head. 
“I’ve heard some wild ones in my day,” he re¬ 
marked, “but that wins the pennant.” He shifted 
slowly from one foot to the other. “But, Mr. 
Besant,” he began again, “with all this rumpus 
settled up pretty, why didn’t Mr. Serrano just wait 
and get married in church like a Christian?” 

Besant looked thoughtfully at the foot of the bed 
and then he spoke slowly. 

“Tim,” he said, “first and last I’ve told you a 
good many things that I wouldn’t tell most people, 
and now I’m going to tell you one more that has 
got to stay just between you and me. Years ago, 




314 


THE *GAY CONSPIRATORS 


in France, Mrs. Crewe was deeply in love with Mr. 
Serrano’s father, the Duke of Prada, and for a 
time he intended to marry her. But after a while 
he found someone else whom he loved more and 
he broke the engagement. When Mr. Serrano 
came to this country he had a letter for Mrs. Crewe, 
but Mrs. Crewe never told her husband who he 
really was, and she was determined, also, that he 
should never marry Miss Cynthia. When Miss 
Dessler began to hint that she could get rid of Mr. 
Serrano, Mrs. Crewe was apparently ready to back 
her as far as she dared. There was one thing that 
she could never forgive, and she had never for¬ 
given Mr. Serrano’s father.” 

“And how long was it,” asked Tim, “that she’d 
been holding this grudge against him?” 

“About thirty years,” said Besant. 

Tim thought it over, scratched his head, and 
looked up with a grin. 

“Ain’t women hell?” 




Chapter LX 

F OR the last time, Besant breakfasted alone in 
his rooms, the same imperturbable man¬ 
servant entering in the same imperturbable way. 
Besant watched him curiously as he put down his 
tray, uncovered the toast, and then stood back for 
further orders. It was easy to imagine how the 
servants’ hall must have been buzzing since day¬ 
light. Yet had this man remained as completely 
unaffected as he appeared? Besant had poured 
his coffee and picked up his spoon when he heard 
a decorous cough and, looking up, saw that the 
man was waiting for a chance to address him. 

“I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Besant. If I 

may speak to you on a personal matter-?” 

“Why, certainly!” said Besant. “What is it, 
er-?” 

“Rennie, sir. My name is Rennie. And if I may 
ask you, sir—I have always been very fond of 
reading about detectives. I have always under¬ 
stood that there was great opportunity in that line 
for servants like myself who knew how to enter 
large houses and conduct themselves with discre¬ 
tion. And if, sir, you might know of some open¬ 
ing-” 

To conceal his smile, Besant looked hurriedly 
down at the table. 

“Rennie,” he answered, “in the past ten years 
I have looked into several thousand cases requir- 
315 







316 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


ing detectives, but this is the first in my experience 
which has ever taken me to a house of this kind. 
If you will accept my suggestion, you will find 
yourself far happier and far better off doing just 
what you are now.” 

“I have no doubt, sir,” replied the man, “and I 
trust you will pardon my asking.” 

“And one thing more, sir,” he added. “Miss San¬ 
ford wished to inquire whether you could be ready 
to start for Manhasset inside of an hour. Her 
father has telephoned that he has come up from 
New York and wishes her to be back this morning.” 




Chapter LXI 

S ENDING word for Tim to come up and pack 
the kit bag to the best of his vigorous ability, 
Besant went into the hall and looked toward Da¬ 
mon Crewe’s apartments. To his surprise, the 
double doors were wide open and the morning 
light was streaming into the room, while the bed 
was made up for the day and unoccupied. 

Besant passed down the stairs and out to the 
terrace. Slowly rising above the cloud banks, the 
sun was now burning its way through the mists 
on the ocean and, one by one, the landmarks up 
and down the coast were becoming visible. In 
the little pavilion at the end of the pier, Besant 
could see Damon Crewe sitting in his wheel-chair, 
just as he had seen him on his first morning at 
Legget’s Harbor, but now it was Connie who was 
sitting beside him. 

Besant walked down the echoing boards and 
greeted his host. 

“Good morning, Mr. Crewe. This is the biggest 

surprise of all-seeing you here at this time of 

day.” 

The old gentleman looked up and his shoulders 
hitched with amusement. “Besant,” he said, “in 
the last twelve hours I have done everything that 
my doctors had told me would be fatal. I have 
suffered a severe nervous shock. I have sat up 
all night. I have smoked six cigars and given way 
317 





318 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


to violent anger. And I never felt better in my 
life. How do you explain it?” 

Besant sat down at his side, while Connie re¬ 
mained in what had become again her accustomed 
place—the silence of the background. For several 
minutes, in fact, no one spoke in the little pavilion 
while, merely, the waves continued to lap at the 
foot of the pier and the mounting sun continued 
to push the mists farther and farther toward the 
horizon. Damon Crewe spoke at last. 

“Besant,” he said, “we had enough explanations 
last night to do me for a lifetime. The last thing 
on earth that I want to do now is to go all over it 
again, but there is one direct question that I want 
to ask you. How much of the truth did you actu¬ 
ally know before this matter finally exploded?” 

In answer Besant laughed. “Mr. Crewe,” he 
replied, “I was hoping to get away without ever 
letting you guess how appallingly little I really did 
know. Two things I knew at sight—that Frank 
Serrano was all right and that Miss Dessler was all 
wrong.” 

“I believed in Serrano myself,” answered the 
banker. “As to Miss Dessler, I had never paid 
much attention. Excepting yourself, I never paid 
much attention to anyone whom Arthur Cramp 
recommended.” 

“In my own mind,” explained Besant, “I had 
sufficient confidence in Serrano to wish him good 
luck, but not quite sufficient knowledge to let 
him get away without a showdown. From a fact 
that my man discovered I had also had suspicions 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


319 


that the so-called Swiss might be a federal agent, 
but whether he was watching somebody else or 
watching Serrano himself was a thing which still 
remained to be discovered. 

“But one other thing,” continued Besant, “I had 
known from the first. When Mr. Cramp first 
showed me those anonymous letters, I noticed a 
single name. One of the letters had been mailed 
from a little town in California named Las Hayas. 
Two or three years ago I worked on a blackmail 
case in New York in which there had been a 
similar set of letters, and one of those letters had 
also been mailed at Las Hayas. In that case there 
was very strong reason to believe that all the letters 
had been forged and sent by the Zankrouf agency. 
Last night I forced an opportunity to mention the 
Zankrouf Bureau to Miss Dessler. I knew at once 
by the way she acted that the name was at least 
familiar—that either she herself had worked for 
the bureau or else had employed it to do this work 
for her. I had no more doubt, then, as to where 
the letters had started.” 

“But about the safe,” asked Henry Crewe. “I 
don’t understand yet just why you put that paper 
in the lock.” 

“The paper that I put in the lock,” explained 
Besant, “was not the original paper that was there. 
When I first examined the safe there was part of 
a letter there—in Frank Serrano’s own hand¬ 
writing. It was another fragment of the same 
letter which Mr. Cramp had shown me before. 
The letter itself had been a perfectly harmless 




320 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


thing written to Frank’s own sister in Paris. Ap¬ 
parently it was the only recent sample of Ser¬ 
rano’s handwriting which Miss Dessler had been 
able to obtain and she had to make it go as far 
as possible. The original half of the letter sounded 
very incriminating. It appeared as if Frank were 
intending to swindle every rich man in New York. 
The other half of the letter showed that he merely 
referred to his musical ambitions with the backers 
of the new symphony orchestra and implied that, 
where art was concerned, wealthy New Yorkers 
were apt to be very stubborn and conservative 
customers. This letter was written in Spanish and, 
without a translation, Miss Dessler did not know 
just what words to tear off.” 

“And where is this letter now?” asked Damon 
Crewe. 

“I burned it, last night,” said Besant, “along with 
the others.” 

For some time more the two men sat in a silence 
which was suddenly interrupted by the violent and 
persistent blowing of a motor horn at the other 
side of the house. From her corner of the little 
pavilion, Connie looked up with a sardonic smile 
and Damon Crewe glanced toward the source of 
the noise with some impatience. 

“That horn,” he said, “has, to me, all the ear¬ 
marks of Dorothy Sanford.” 

In immediate proof of his statement Dorothy 
herself appeared on the terrace and then came 
swinging jauntily down the pier. 

“Good morning, Mr. Crewe,” she said, demurely. 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


321 


then turned to Besant. “Well, Sherlock, are you 
ready to make your way back to the bushes of old 
Manhasset?” 

Damon Crewe started gruffly. “What’s this? 
What’s this?” he demanded. “Are you going to 
kidnap Besant a second time? I was expecting him 
to stay for the rest of the week and help me to keep 
up my spirits.” 

Besant, however, had already risen to his feet. 
“I am sorry, Mr. Crewe, but I am afraid that I shall 
have to be off this morning.” He turned to Connie. 
“And, Miss Crewe, I hope that I shall see you 
again.” 

In answer Connie slowly nodded her head. 
“Good by, Mr. Besant.” Beyond that she said 
nothing more than on the first time he had seen 
her. 

The banker was slowly turning his wheel-chair 
to face the shore. “Well,” he conceded, “if you 
must go, I suppose you must, but come up soon 
and see me again.” Then quizzically he turned 
to Dorothy Sanford and nodded his head. “And, 
Besant,” he warned, “look out for that young lady 
there. She’s the only one of the crowd that I have 
known, from the first, was a regular bad ’un.” 




Chapter LXII 


T the landward side of the house two motor 



cars were waiting with the luggage—Besant’s 
own car and Dorothy’s. Tim, grinning from ear 
to ear, was sitting at the wheel of the little Fabre. 

“But who’s going to drive the other car?” 
demanded Besant. 

“You are,” replied Dorothy Sanford, “and you 
are going to take me along with you. Ever since 
yesterday I have owed Tim a chance to drive the 
Fabre.” 

“But,” protested Besant, “he’ll smash it to bits.” 

“Well, what if he does,” replied Dorothy, “so 
long as neither of us is in it with him?” 

Already fearful lest the debate might be decided 
against him, Tim had started his motor, and by the 
time the others had reached the main gates he was 
almost out of sight toward the woods at the base 
of the headland. 

At Gaylordsville they came to the smooth, tarred 
road of the regular highway, with motor cars 
busily humming north and south, with the little 
stores of the village standing open for their morn¬ 
ing trade, with a group of children playing and 
shouting on the village green, and with sedate 
villagers passing across the street to the post office. 
To Besant it seemed like something wholly unreal 
—as if he had suddenly come out of a theater, as 
if he were trying to adjust himself to scenes which 


322 




THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


323 


he had once known but to which his eyes, for a 
time, had become unaccustomed. Something of 
the same spirit must have been felt by Dorothy 
Sanford, at his side, for she, too, had fallen into a 
moody silence. 

At the end of the village street the detour was 
still enforced, and on the brief quiet of the country 
roads Besant found an atmosphere that was more 
in sympathy with his own spirit. Very quietly he 
took one hand from the wheel and put it over 
Dorothy’s which lay in her lap. She did not draw 
her own hand away and Besant stopped the car. 
Dorothy looked up at him with eyes quite 
unfrightened. 

“What are you going to do?” she asked him. 

Besant looked back and saw that no other car 
was in sight. Very gently he put his arm over her 
shoulder and drew her toward him. “I think you 
know very well,” he said, “what I am going to do.” 

The girl gave a sigh. “Oh, well,” she said, “I 
don’t know how I can stop you. You’ve already 
proved, on the island, that you are stronger than 
I am.” Suddenly she pushed him away. “Don’t! 
Please!” she begged. “There’s a farmer laughing 
at us from that hay field.” 

With no great hurry, Besant started the car 
again, and this time they continued without a pause 
to Manhasset. They passed up the winding drive 
of the Sanford place and came to a stop at the 
doorway. Besant looked through the trees to his 
own little house. 




324 


THE GAY CONSPIRATORS 


“Peace!” he exclaimed. “Perfect peace. And a 
long summer ahead of us.” 

But again he was wrong. There was no peace. 
For hardly had they left the car when Tim, in his 
shirt sleeves, came darting up to them. 

“Say, Mr. Besant,” he ordered, “come look at 
this! Just take a look at it!” 

Dorothy and Besant followed him to the dividing 
wall and Tim waved his hand toward Besant’s 
own garden. On the other side of the wall was a 
lettuce patch scratched down to the roots. 

In the center of it stood—a completely 
undaunted peacock. 




Harper Fiction 


PALLIETER By Felix Timmermans 

This delightful story by the leading Flemish writer of the day 
has had an extraordinary success all over Europe, and has been 
published in many languages. This admirable English translation 
preserves all the gaiety, the beauty and the flavor of the original. 
It tells the rollicking story of the adventures, the love and marriage 
of a gay and lovable man who gets all the joy possible out of his life. 

PICARO By Charles Nordoff 

A gallant tale of modern romance, told in polished and sparkling 
prose. The hero’s adventures carry him from the picturesque Cali¬ 
fornia home of his ancestors to wartime France and back, and into 
affairs with two women who are among the unforgettable portraits 
of fiction. 

COMMENCEMENT By Ernest Brace 

Level-headed honesty and striking characterization make this 
strong first novel remarkable. The story of a young man’s struggle 
to adjust himself to life in a great city, “Commencement” rings 
true to the experience of innumerable young people entering on 
the adventure of life; it is keenly and disturbingly real. 

WIDENING WATERS By Margaret Hill McCarter 

All the play of virile American life at its best is in this tense story 
of pioneer ranch life in the mountains of northern New Mexico. 
It is a tale of love, intrigue and hatred against the larger back¬ 
ground of struggle with the forces of nature. 

THE LANTERN ON THE PLOW 

By George Agnew Chamberlain 

Like Sheila Kay e-Smith’s “Sussex Gorse,” this is an epic of the 
soil. Somber, ruthless, the old New Jersey farm dominates the lives 
of two generations that live and toil upon it. Dramatic, nearly 
tragic, is the story of Eunice Sherborne, with her brilliant mind and 
repressed emotions, and of her two children, Drake and Jo, 
powerful, but lightened by character drawing of prismatic subtlety. 

HARPER & BROTHERS 

T 90 





Harper Fiction 


JULIE CANE By Harvey O’Higgins 

The first novel of a distinguished short-story writer and psycholo¬ 
gist, who is one of the greatest stylists now writing in America. 
A masterpiece of character-drawing and dramatic narrative, “Julie 
Cane” tells the story of the daughter of a shabby, eccentric little 
grocery-store keeper, trained by him in extraordinary self-confidence 
and idealism, and of her desperate and triumphant battle for the 
mastery of her own life. 

TALK By Emanie Sachs 

Crushed between the millstones of two generations—deprived of 
the right to live her own life by the narrow public opinion of one 
age, then scorned for failure by the next—such was the experience 
of Delia Morehouse. It is a tragedy which will find a response in 
the hearts of many whose lives have been lived among the changing 
thought and standards of the past thirty years. 

THE TRIUMPH OF GALLIO By W. L. George 

Mr. George’s piercing and honest portrayal of character is at its 
best in this study of a thoroughly mean and selfish man, and of the 
women who touch his life. Holyoake Tarrant’s career, from a 
hawker to a millionaire and back again, is set forth unforgettably 
by this master psychologist. 

THE GAY CONSPIRATORS By Philip Curtis 

In this delightful book Mr. Curtis has done something more than 
tell a baffling and breathlessly exciting modern mystery yarn. He 
has written it with such a light and delicious humor, and with such 
sureness and grace, that the most discriminating reader is charmed 
as well as entertained. 

THE ABLE McLAUGHLINS By Margaret Wilson 

The Harper Prize Novel 

This story of a group of Scotch pioneers in Iowa is an extraordi¬ 
nary combination of best-seller, prize-winner, and first novel that 
no reader of our native fiction should miss. “It stands among the 
finest contributions to the year’s fiction, worthy to live for innu¬ 
merable seasons for its honesty, its simplicity and its native 
power .”—Philadelphia Record. 

HARPER & BROTHERS 

T 89 










Harper Fiction 


INNER DARKNESS By Ethelda Daggett Hesser 

Simple, ruthless, even tragic, this striking story of men and 
women whose lives are deep-rooted in the black soil of the 
Middle West has much the flavor of Hardy’s dramas of rural 
England. “It is a rare pleasure to welcome a newcomer among 
American novelists of such unmistakable dramatic power, ca¬ 
pacity of understanding and narrative skill as the hitherto un¬ 
known authoress of this story. She brings a distinctly new note 
to our current fiction.”— New York Herald. 

WAGES By Mary Lanier Magruder 

Vivid romance and yet a stark reality of passion are merged in 
this tale of the Kentucky lowlands. It is a story of a man and 
a woman, utterly different from each other and with different 
ideas of life and marriage, yet strangely brought together to 
work out their destiny. It is a tale of the unfolding, through a 
conflict of dark human emotions, and against the power of fate, 
of a great and generous nature under the influence of love. 

THE ABLE McLAUGHLINS By Margaret Wilson 

The Harper Prize Novel. 

An extraordinary combination of best-seller, prize-winner, and 
first novel that no reader of our native fiction should miss. “In 
this story of a group of Scotch pioneers in Iowa, Miss Wilson, 
like Willa Cather, like Herbert Quick and like Joseph Herges- 
heimer in some of his best stories, has recognized the great 
human drama in our own historic past, and has tilled the soil,— 
to her own great profit and to the advantage of our American 
letters.”— Harry Hansen in the Chicago Daily News. 

LUMMOX By Fannie Hurst 

The famous novel whose central character has already taken 
her place among the universally known and permanent figures 
of American literature. “Out of every sentence in Miss Hurst’s 
tremendous volume comes the lummox. I know Bertha. She 
lives. It is a book crowded with drama. It is a book by a woman 
of wisdom and comprehension—yes, of genius. It places Miss 
Hurst with one stride in the ranks of our foremost novelists.”— 
Charles Hanson Towne in the International Book Review. 


T87 


HARPER & BROTHERS 





Harder Fiction 


BUNK By W. E. Woodward 

“A novel whose publication is an event in American satire. 
One can fancy Laurence Sterne and Mark Twain, somewhere in 
the beyond, putting their heads together over a copy of ‘Bunk’ 
and rejoicing at the appearance on earth of a new humorist 
capable of dealing intelligently with a very large subject.”— 
L. H. Robbins in the New York Times. 

“A unique, rollicking, immensely entertaining novel. A book 
that is absolutely ‘different,’ written with a gusto and an irre¬ 
pressible spirit of fun that is communicated to the reader. A 
brilliant achievement .”—Chicago Daily News. 

THE HAPPY ISLES By Basil King 

The story of the son of a wealthy family, kidnapped in baby¬ 
hood and forced to struggle upwards by himself in extraordinary 
surroundings of crime and poverty, but also, strangely, of love. 
“A book packed solidly with enjoyable reading, and with realism 
neither sordid nor sex-cursed, but dusted over with romance. 
Some very fine and even delicately beautiful thoughts have been 
given expression in a novel of engrossing interest .”—Philadelphia 
North American. 

THE GOLDEN COCOON By Ruth Cross 

A new personality, rememberable and charming, is brought to 
life in this first novel. It is the story of Molly, oldest of the 
brood of the “shiftless Shannons,” quick-tempered, imaginative, 
intensely individual, and of her adventures in life and love. 
Against a richly colored background of New York and the far 
South is told a tale of deep emotional experience and of gay 
courage which is as imaginative and beautiful as it is dramatic. 

MOLESKIN JOE • By Patrick MacGill 

A thrilling story of the strange adventures and love of a young 
workman in an isolated construction camp, by an author whose 
tales, written out of his own long experience among the toilers 
of the world, have gained for him an international reputation. 
“It is a good story, it is written with skill, it pictures its scenes 
and people vividly, it captures and holds the reader’s interest. 
He plunges the reader at once into the full current of interest, 
and he keeps it going, full and strong, until the end.”— New 
York Times. 

HARPER & BROTHERS 
T88 












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